A Life Half Lived
by Dimfuin
Summary: With sudden force, Faramir wished he could laugh laugh like there was no tomorrow, and no men to lead. No father to please. No darkness creeping up on him. Maybe if he laughed, the hard, worried man would go away.
1. The Captain's Men

**Chapter One**

The night was cool and clear, highlighting the moon as if in a silver frame. Winds from the north whispered in the trees, and the very first shoots of spring shuddered under a fresh coat of frost. Leaves from autumn past scuttled along the ground in the sharp gusts of wind that kicked in every now and then.

The water flowing down from Henneth Anûn into the forbidden pool sounded too loud in the silence, and one could almost hear the plopping of the fish and other small creatures as they made their watery way through the depths of the pool. Or so it seemed to the silent man who stood watching it, his features caught up in a musing expression. He seemed unsure what to do with himself---as if he was not explicitly ordered to do anything, and yet he loathed to retire and rest.

His hair was light chestnut in color, and it fell straight as an arrow to his shoulders, unbound by any cord or tie. His eyes were a deep, dark brown, moody and unsure, and his face bespoke of years of long experience in the wilderness. By simply looking at his taught muscles and the way he carried himself, one knew he had been a ranger and a military man for most of his life, which looked to have been about thirty years. On one side of his face a scar formed almost a complete circle, and he wore the look of a man who would be difficult to best in battle.

As the breeze blew upon him once again, brushing hair into his eyes, he bowed his head and leaned heavily against the stone wall. His shoulders were tight with pent up emotion; anger, grief, excitement: it was impossible to tell. And as he fingered his bow, there came the sounds of light footfalls behind him.

"Tirinion," a low voice called, "where art thou?"

The man turned, smiling a little. "I am here, brother. What does thou want from me?"

Another man, looking a startling amount like the first, stepped from the shadow and stood next to him. He too looked down at the water for a few minutes until he again spoke. "I wish to speak with thee," he said softly. Looking into his eyes, he laid a hand on his shoulder and asked, "Thee hath much to tell me, hast thou not?"

Tirinion nodded. "Aye, Rochion." interrupting his words with a sigh, he went on: "I will tell thee whatever thou wishest."

With a slight smile, Rochion led the way through the stone walls and both men disappeared as silently as they had come.

Inside there was light and soft talking, and Tirinion and Rochion quickly found a fire to make themselves comfortable by. Both men sat, laying their weapons aside and doffing their gloves. Their cloaks they kept on; the bitter chill in the air penetrated even the stone walls of the cave. Rochion poured steaming liquid from a flask and handed a beaker to his brother, saying, "You must be chilled."

Tirinion accepted the drink, though he said almost silently, "Someone should offer drink to the Lord Faramir."

Rochion's face took on a pensive expression, and he nodded slowly as he poured himself a full goblet from the flask. Then, sitting back, he asked, "He is not well, thou sayest?"

Tirinion shrugged. "As well as can be expected. He speaks of naught but battle plans and will not let the pain which burns in his eyes show through to his lips."

Rochion nodded. "Aye," he simply said. He was silent again, moodily downing his drink. After a minute he leaned forward until he could look into his brother's eyes again, which were partially shrouded by Tirinion's hair. "Tell me what happened. Rumors are flying about the place, but I will believe naught but what thou tellest me."

Tirinion wiped a hand across his forehead and looked up as another man approached. He had darker hair than either of the brothers, and his frame was more wiry and lithe. Tirinion hailed him heartily.

"Greetings, Damrod. What news?" he asked.

Damrod sat across from him, shaking his head and placing his hands over the fire. "Nothing, brothers from Belfalas. We have no clear orders yet, and the Captain keeps his own council tonight." He sent a searching look toward Tirinion, who sighed inaudibly.

Rochion nodded. "I was just asking Tirinion to tell me of what happened whilst they were on patrol. I scarcely know what to believe." He leaned forward until he was just a few inches away from his brother's face. "Is what they say true? Is Boromir dead?"

His words had been said in a whisper, but they still hung in the air between them like an unspeakable stench. Tirinion hesitated, and then very slowly he nodded his head.

"I believe it is so. The Captain is---thee knowest how he has visions of these things---sure of it himself, and I do not distrust him."

Damrod sat forward. "Tell me what happened. You were there; you saw everything. Was he dreaming?"

Tirinion shook his head disgustedly. "Thinkest thou the Captain would let himself sleep whilst watching? Nay, it was no dream. If anything it was a...a vision." He paused, taking a long gulp of his drink, and then went on in a dreamy, halting manner.

"We were moving up the west bank of the river when it happened. Hálas and I were behind, and Faramir and Mablung took the lead. We were just past the cleft in the river when suddenly the Captain stopped. I saw Mablung asking him what was the matter, but the Captain merely shook his head. He dropped his bow lifelessly, and as he stretched out his hands I saw there were tremors running through him.

"Without further thought, he stepped toward the river and began making his way into the cold water. I called to him, asking him what he saw, but he did not answer me. I think perhaps he did not even hear me, for all his attention was focused on something in the river which none of us could see. Soon he was up to his waist in water, and his teeth were chattering with cold, yet he did not halt. He struggled fiercely against the current, but I feared it would drag him under. I called out again, but he still ignored me.

"'Captain!' I called, beginning to wade in after him. I would have, had not Hálas stopped me.

"'Let him be,' he whispered. 'He is seeing something.'

"I frowned, but just then Captain Faramir held a hand out, almost pleadingly. I strained my eyes, and for a moment I thought I might have seen something---a large object, almost boat-like. But then I blinked and I saw nothing. Faramir touched what I could not see, and whispered several words I could not hear. Whatever it was seemed to be passing him, and he turned as it went by. He looked as if he was considering following it, but he held himself back. Then, with a strangled cry, the strength went out of him and the current would have taken him away had Mablung and I not jumped in after him and pulled him out.

"Once on dry land again, we tried to warm him, as he was shaking like a leaf. I looked into his eyes, and what I saw there still scares me."

Tirinion looked around at his rapt audience and said gently, "The Captain suffers more than we know, that is for sure."

Rochion nodded mutely and gestured for his brother to go on. Tirinion took another swig of ale and resumed talking.

"He kept saying his brother's name: 'Boromir,' he said, 'Why hast thou left me? Why hast thou forsaken me?' I asked him repeatedly what had happened, and he finally told me what he saw. A boat, he said. It was riding low in the water, and in it he discerned the face of his brother, Lord Boromir. About him were strewn weapons of foes that were doubtless slain by his hand, and on his breast lay his great sword. His face was ashen and still, and he did not draw breath. He was dead."

Rochion and Damrod gasped, and Tirinion nodded. "After that he quickly gathered himself and, after several self-administered shakings, took charge again. He apologized for inhibiting us and drenching us, and without a word more he led the way back here."

There was silence, and Tirinion finished the last dregs in his mug before wiping his mouth and settling back. Rochion shook his head dazedly. "Then Boromir is...dead," he murmured.

Tirinion nodded. "I will not doubt the Captain. His visions have proved right on more than enough occasions. Though why he should—must—see these visions, I have no idea."

Damrod swallowed roughly. "Boromir was a great man, and he will be sorely missed by us and our cause. And yet..." he stopped and looked down. "Yet I do not know why the Captain must go through this."

Rochion nodded. "He has never been anything but a good leader. I do not know how we would have made it through many misadventures without his clear thinking and swift action. Not even Boromir, I would argue, could match him for leadership."

Damrod laughed softly. "The garrison at Osgiliath would argue that point, I'll warrant. But I agree with you."

Tirinion nodded. "'Tis a different kind of leadership. Faramir was always better suited to this pursuit, if what I have heard is correct. It requires more mental work, and less grit on the battlefield. We have a different way of life."

Damrod turned to Rochion and nudged him. "What are you thinking of? Or is silence often your companion?"

Rochion shook his head silently. "I was thinking of the day Boromir left for the legendary Rivendell, on which journey he doubtless died. Thee must remember---the day we joined forces to fight for Osgiliath."

"Aye, the day we conquered the Mordor scum," Damrod answered. "What of it?"

Rochion sighed. "What his father said to him...I still do not understand it. I was celebrating nearby, but once I overheard their conversation, I had no more joy that day. If my Captain was not celebrating, what right had I?"

"What did the Steward say?" Tirinion asked curiously.

"He told Faramir that but for him Osgiliath would not have been lost. That he had no right to say he had too few men. And when Faramir requested that he himself should seek out Rivendell, he told him it was---it was just a chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality."

Tirinion and Damrod shook their heads, and Damrod gritted his teeth in defiance. "Does anyone understand Lord Denethor's loathing of his son?"

"Nay," Tirinion said, laughing without humor. "For there is no basis. And there never will be one."

"Well one thing is certain: it does not make his job any easier to have a father and lord who is constantly picking out his faults." Rochion set his cup down and pulled hair out of his eyes. "And to see him walking around without eating or sleeping is simply madness. How long does he expect to last? How long does his _father_ expect him to last?"

Damrod snorted. "I neither know nor care. Has he not slept recently?"

"I have not seen him close his eyes since he saw his brother---which was a full twenty-four hours ago," Tirinion said. "And he has not eaten since then."

"Then we must see to it that he does," Damrod said quietly. "I for one will not have the Captain suffer because of his father or anyone else. He has, as you say, led us through many tight spots, and has been a good leader to us. When I was wounded in the skirmish last autumn, it was he himself that risked his own life to rescue me. When he was wounded and bleeding from the same battle, he went around the sick-quarters and helped ease and heal the soldiers until loss of blood forced him off his feet. And even then he was up within the next four hours and reviewing battle plans with Mablung. His hands are the steadiest on the bowstring, his mind is the sharpest, and his heart is the biggest. I have seen him talk to countless rookies before a battle, and comfort them with a few simple words. I would follow him until the end gladly." Damrod finished talking and bowed his head as Tirinion and Rochion nodded gently at the flickering fire which had burned low.

"Thank you," a quiet voice said suddenly from the shadows, and all three men sprang up, partially from respect and partially from surprise.

"Captain Faramir," Rochion gasped as a lanky figure slipped from the shadows. Faramir held his hands up, noiselessly bidding them to sit down. The three men looked at one another in silence, then sat. Faramir reached for a goblet and the ale, and as he poured himself a goblet full of the warm liquid, he said, "I trust you are all off-duty?"

Tirinion nodded. "Aye, we are."

Rochion took the flask from Faramir. "Wouldst thou like something to eat, Captain?"

Faramir smiled at Rochion. "No, thank you. However sporadic my eating habits appear to you, I do in fact take sustenance."

Rochion shifted uncomfortably and glanced helplessly at Tirinion, who winced. Faramir seemed unconcerned, and he sipped his drink silently for a long time. They were just beginning to think he was not going to speak when he set his goblet down. Looking at all of them in turn, he said, "I want to thank you, again, for what I overheard. It was not much," he smiled softly, "but it was enough to make me appreciate having men like you." His voice caught on the last word slightly, but he immediately swallowed and went on. "And do not worry about me; Boromir is..." he stopped and looked down into his goblet. The men could see him waging a silent battle within himself as he stared down into his ale, but when he looked up his eyes were clear. "In any case, I thank you."

Rochion stood silently. "Forgive me, Captain; I must go see to my weapons." He bowed silently, and then he melted away into the men around them.

As soon as he was gone Damrod stood and begged leave to depart too. Faramir waved him away, and when he was gone he glanced at Tirinion. "Are you going to find an excuse too?" he asked with a slight chuckle in his voice.

Tirinion shook his head. "I have none," he said simply. Faramir nodded and filled his goblet again.

"Thank you for saving my life," Faramir said. He looked at the chestnut haired man opposite him and added, "I needed you, in my moment of weakness."

"There are not many of them," Tirinion commented.

Faramir sighed almost silently. "There are more than you would think, I gather." He seemed on the verge of saying something, and for a few minutes he hesitated. "Tirinion," he finally said, "you have been my faithful friend and soldier for longer than I remember. I—I don't know how to say this but..."

"Boromir was a good man," Tirinion said softly. "And an even better brother, I'll warrant."

Faramir gazed at the man from Belfalas. "You know what having a brother is like. You know what pain it would cause you if Rochion were to die. How you would—wish to die yourself."

Tirinion nodded. "Aye," he said huskily. "That I do."

Faramir sighed. "In truth...I do not know what to do. How can we hope for victory without Boromir?"

Tirinion shook his head. "Boromir was great, but he was not the only one," he said. "We still have leaders that can bring us victory. Leaders that men will follow." He stopped and shook his head. "Do not let what others think bring thee down."

Faramir leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees and began massaging his eyes. "I have to tell him, Tirinion."

Tirinion nodded and stared at the flames. "Aye. He has a right to know, sir." He bit his tongue and cursed himself inwardly for his lack of better words. "But thee must rest first," he finally said, in a firm voice that he had never used with his captain before.

Faramir was not irked. He nodded slowly, hands still over his eyes. "Yes, I should. But I am afraid, Tirinion." He looked up at the other man, and there was fear in his eyes. Tirinion had never seen his Captain look like that before, and he was unsure what to think. "I don't know what I will find in the land of dreams. And I do not want to waste time. Now that Boromir is...gone...I must do the work of us both."

"Thee cannot, Captain," Tirinion protested. "It is impossible. Thee does too much already. Thou wilt kill thyself if thou tries it."

Faramir laughed hoarsely. "Kill myself...aye, I might kill myself. But if that is the outcome, then that is what I must do." He closed his eyes and leaned back, idly unclasping his cloak and loosening the collar of his tunic. "But perhaps I can delay my return to Minis Tirith for a few days..."

"We need thee here," Tirinion agreed.

Faramir sighed and bowed his head, and before long his breath grew measured. Tirinion smiled as he realized that his Captain had finally fallen asleep, and he stoked the fire back to life so he would not be cold. But fate was not kind to Faramir that day, and before ten minutes were up there were heard loud voices at the end of the hall and hurrying feet. "The Lord Faramir...where is the Captain?" echoed through the room, and Faramir's head snapped up. Fingers pointed toward him, and he drew himself up to his full height as a breathless man ran toward him and dropped onto one knee at his feet.

"Rise," Faramir said, helping the man, who looked as if he was about to collapse, up to a standing position. "Sit, here, and tell me your news."

The man nodded gratefully and took a minute to catch his breath before beginning to speak. In his hands he clutched a bundle of cloth which secreted something lumpy inside it. Faramir waited patiently, and every now and then his eye would catch on the bundle. Finally, the man spoke.

"Sir," he began, "I was on watch not an hour ago when I saw something at the edge of the water. It looked as if it was shimmering in the dying light, and I stealthily made my way toward it. When I got closer, I saw what it was, and my heart seemed to be torn within me. And not ten minutes after I fished it out, a soldier rode up to me and handed me its counterpart, for he too had found it in the river. It's...it's this, sir," he finished, handing Faramir the bundle and turning away.

With trembling hands, Faramir began unwrapping the bundle. Before he had reached the middle, his face turned ashen, and he said in a strangled tone, "Oh Eru!" The men around him looked at each other and murmured, trying to see what it was. Before he could stop it, the object slipped from Faramir's once again lifeless fingers and clattered to the floor.

It was Boromir's horn, cloven in two.

A great gasp went up from the assembly, and Faramir stooped to pick it up. With shaking hands, he wrapped it up again and set it on a stool reverently, then turned to pick up his cloak. "I must leave at once," he muttered, clasping it around himself. Turning to Hálas, he said, "Prepare my horse immediately, and pack me water and bread. I must go to the Steward. Now."

The men began to disperse again, and nobody saw Tirinion making his silent way down to the stables to saddle _his _horse. His Captain was going on a journey, and he would see to it that he was protected. Faramir could not face this shadow alone.

* * *

_It's difficult for Faramir's men to understand both the Steward's loathing of Faramir, and Faramir's loving of the Steward. This chapter is made to bring out their confusion, and also Faramir's acceptance that they cannot understand. His emotions run so deep and are intertwined with his instincts so acutely that they have no way of knowing how it is possible for him to love the man who hates him._

_"Thee" and "Thou" are difficult to work with, but they do give Tirinion and Rochion an essential part of their characters. It is imperative they have something distinguishing about them---to symbolize, if nothing else, that they are not from around Minis Tirith, and so do not quite understand all its complexities. In a sense they are simpler and truer, and they do not need flowery explanations to understand something. This makes Tirinion a perfect friend for Faramir, who also sees clearly. Tirinion's sense of companionship and almost leech-like friendship—no matter what Faramir does he won't let go—are important for all the trials Faramir must endure. I'm terribly sorry if I slaughtered the 'thees' and 'thous'—forgive me?_


	2. A Cloven Horn

_A HUGE thank you to everyone who reviewed--I didn't realize how much I missed getting reviews until I starting receiving them. I've realized that this story requires quite a lot of Author's Notes, so please, everyone, bear with me._

_I've also realized that my Faramir changes quite a bit in this story (it is almost 60,000 words, so I guess that's only natural). He's a lot wimpier in these first chapters, so I'm sorry for the false advertising! He's more of your typical Faramir in these first chapters, and he gets better as the story progresses. But hey, that's kind of realistic--people change, right? _

_While I was writing the 'thees' and 'thous' I didn't even think that they would be a source of controversy or even really discussion, but I'm glad some of you like them, and I'm sorry for those of you who don't. I agree, they do make it a little difficult to read, and they are a bit jarring, but I still insist they add something to Tirinion and Rochion's characters. :-) In responseto the sentiment that they wouldn't be speaking in'thees' and 'thous' if the people in Gondor's court (aka Faramir) aren't, I disagree. Speaking with'thee' and 'thou' is not always a sign of rank or education, it is also simply a dialectic thing. For instance, the quakers in the17th century still largely spoke with 'thee' and 'thou', andit wasn't because they were better educated than anyone else, it was simply their custom. In some cases speaking in 'thee' and 'thou' even denotes a lower class,such asin Scotland in the 16thcentury. _

_Anyway, too much info, right? The long and short of it is that Ihope you bear with me, and for those of you who dislike it, you'll be happy to know that Tirinion and Rochion aren't in the story all that much, anyway--just the beginning and a little near the end._

**Chapter Two**

When Faramir reached his horse he found Tirinion standing at its head, holding onto the horse's reigns. The Captain of Gondor raised an eyebrow, and his cheeks gained some healthy flush. "Tirinion," he said in surprise, "What are you doing here?"

Tirinion set his jaw. "I am requesting permission to accompany thee on thy journey."

Faramir's shoulders straightened. "And leave the outpost? Just when the time calls for men like you? I do not think so." He lowered his head and walked toward his horse. "I will not require your presence—I know my way around Ithilien better than any man here."

Tirinion shook his head. "I beg thy pardon, Captain, but I was not referring to uncertainty of the way. Thou wilt need another to watch for enemies in the night, for the road is not a very short one. And sire, if I might speak plainly?"

Faramir nodded, laying a hand on his steed.

Tirinion swallowed. "Thou wilt need a friend throughout thy stay in Minis Tirith. I beg the honor to be that friend." Tirinion held his breath, waiting for his Captain to reply. He prayed silently that Faramir, who had denied himself so many comforts in the past, would allow himself to have this one. Yet he saw no struggle within Faramir, who was so apt at masking his emotions except in the most extreme circumstances.

Finally, the young Captain looked up, and his eyes held resolve. "I will, perhaps, be in need of a valet," he said softly. Tirinion could not help but smile as Faramir said, "Have you your things packed?"

Tirinion nodded. "Aye, that I do."

"Then go and report that Captain Faramir will need your assistance on his journey, and that you are to be sent straight back to me. I do not wish to waste any time," Faramir said. Tirinion immediately started away, but before he had gone two steps he felt a strong hand on his arm. Turning back, he looked straight into Faramir's face. "Thank you," the steward's son said, and then he let go. Tirinion turned and hurried inside to report his mission.

* * *

They did not speak much on their journey, except to idly comment on the weather, which was frosty and cold. Both men huddled in their cloaks and urged their horses on, wishing desperately they did not have to stay out in the cold that night. The trip to Minis Tirith would likely end the evening of the following day, if there were no delays.

When they did end up stopping, they built a warm fire and sat near it, heating up water and pulling bread out of their packs. Tirinion glanced over at Faramir more than once, wishing he would eat more and stare at the fire less. "Sir," he finally said, "I will take first watch."

Faramir stirred as if from a dream. "No, I will," he protested. "I am not weary."

Tirinion smiled a little. "Please, Captain. I promise to wake thee when thy turn comes."

Faramir sighed, but he nodded. "Very well. But I cannot promise you that rest will find me." He wrapped himself tightly in his cloak and lay down next to the fire. For a time he tossed, but after a while he did indeed lay still. Tirinion could tell he only slept lightly, like a cat, and should anything happen, he would at once be awake.

However, nothing happened, and Tirinion woke Faramir when his watch came. By dawn both men were up and saddling their horses again to make an early start. They only stopped briefly for a short break at midday, and were within sight of the city walls by early evening.

As the two men rode up to the walls the gate creaked open with an age-old sound, and from the tops of the towers men called down to them. Tirinion could not help noticing how Faramir's hands gripped the reigns tighter and he sat straighter as they rode through the gates. He knew his Captain would not have an easy task, telling his father that the first son was dead. As if Faramir was not already suffering enough.

"Captain Faramir!"

As Tirinion and Faramir dismounted and began making their way toward the stables they heard a voice calling out to them, and upon turning they beheld a young servant of the steward hurrying toward them. He rushed up to Faramir and bowed quickly.

"You father bids me tell you that you are to come to him in one hour's time, sir. He bids you take some food and refresh yourself in your chambers until then," the young man said.

Faramir smiled faintly. "Thank you, Eoron. I will do so."

Eoron bowed again and hurried away, and Faramir turned to hand his horse over to the stable boy. "Sir," Tirinion said, "What shall I do?"

"Come with me, please," Faramir said firmly. "You are doubtless hungry as well."

* * *

Once inside Faramir's quarters, the young Captain proceeded to give Tirinion work to do while he was gone. "Since you insisted on coming with me," he said wryly, "I expect you to do some tasks. Read over that paperwork and paraphrase it for me, and then you can move on to that stack." He ran a hand through his hair nervously. "If it's too much for you, don't strain yourself, but try to do as much as you can," he went on. Absentmindedly he began fiddling with his belt buckle, his fingers making nervous sounds like whispers. "I will be back within an hour."

"But thou hast not eaten," Tirinion protested.

Faramir rolled his eyes. "You are my soldier, not my nursemaid. I will be back soon." With that, he straightened his tunic (which bore the livery of the city) and gently picked up the bundle he had carried near his heart from Henneth Anûn. Then, with a slow and quiet step, he left the room.

For five minutes Tirinion worked on the papers, but before that small amount of time was up he had stood and begun pacing. Back and forth, back and forth he walked, wrestling with his conscience. Should he follow his Captain? Was it wrong?

"Tisn't up to me to say what's right and wrong," he finally muttered, and with a decisive motion, he left the room and shut the door.

Outside he crept through the halls quietly, trying to find his way to Denethor's study. He had only been to the capital city once before in his life, and never before had he wandered about the rooms trying to find the Steward's lair. But common sense and a vague sense of direction finally won out, and distant voices guided him toward a highly lit room.

"Greetings, Father," Faramir was saying just as he came up. The door was slightly ajar, and he could just see both the father and the son. Denethor was sitting in a large armchair, idly watching the fire, and Faramir stood before him with the bundle held in his arms. Tirinion thought it a bit strange that Faramir should only now be speaking, but perhaps the steward had been busy...

Denethor barely acknowledged his son. He glanced up, nodding shortly and then pouring himself a goblet of wine before speaking. "You have returned. Do you bring good news for a change?"

Faramir swallowed, and even Tirinion could hear it. The steward's son was breathing heavily, and in the quiet of the room it seemed much to loud. Tirinion wondered briefly how a man who had so much courage and wits on the battles field could be so intimidated and even, perhaps, afraid, of his own father. "I—I cannot say I do, my lord," Faramir murmured.

Denethor snorted. "I thought as much," he snapped. "What have you failed in this time? Have you given up Ithilien yet?"

Faramir drew himself up. "It is not of my doing, Father. It is not of anyone in Gondor's doing."

"So you say," Denethor returned. "So you will always say. Was not Boromir---"

"Boromir," Faramir interrupted breathlessly, "is why I came to you."

Denethor stared at his son with round eyes, catching his breath. Perhaps in the depths of Faramir's emotionless eyes he could see the truth lurking, or perhaps it was the completely passive tone of voice which Faramir used. Tirinion knew Faramir had been practicing for the past three days.

"What do you mean?" Denethor finally asked, and he stood and walked over to his son. Laying a hand on Faramir, he shook him harshly. "What do you mean?"

Faramir bowed his head to hide the tear that slipped down his cheek. "Here, Father. This will speak for itself." He slowly (and almost grudgingly) handed the wrapped bundle to Denethor, who took it without looking at it. The steward stepped back and stood next to the hearth, unwrapping the bundle with feverish anxiety; as the cloth fell away, Denethor stumbled to a chair and sank into it.

It seemed as if no one would speak. Faramir stood with his back to the door, as if on the very edge of leaving, and Denethor stared at the cloven horn as if he had been turned to stone. Tirinion wondered for a split-second if his own heart would give him away, for it thumped loudly in his breast.

Finally, Faramir stepped forward. Tirinion could not see his face, but he could hear the longing in his voice as he stretched out a hand and said in a whisper, "The two halves were found in the river. And I--" he looked around wildly for something to lean on, "I myself saw him, my lord."

Denethor's head snapped up, and he sprang from his chair. In two strides he was across the room and put both hands on Faramir's shoulders. "When? How? Tell me, Faramir!"

Faramir struggled to control his voice. "In a boat, on the Anduín. I think it was a vision, but it seemed so real! He floated by, and in the boat were weapons of countless foes. He held his sword, and his face was so still and silent, as if he were sleeping, but he did not breathe. I don't know what madness possessed him, but--"

Faramir's words were broken off as Denethor threw him roughly to one side. Sinking to his knees, the Steward held his hands in the air and moaned aloud. "Why, oh why?" he cried. "Why must you take him also! Was it not enough that you took my beautiful wife, you must also steal my son—my pride—from me? Why?"

His cry died out and the silence crept back in. Faramir, in the corner, wiped his mouth where it had struck the bookshelf and hesitated. For as long as he could remember, he had been rejected by this man he called "Father". Now that there was no family left to them, was there a chance he might find favor? He struggled to speak, but his whirling thoughts got the better of him, and he merely stood in silence.

Denethor began to weep, quietly, and then there came the sound of rain whispering against the windowpanes and drenching the earth in its bounty. Tirinion began to feel uneasy. The tension in the room had to break eventually, and he had no idea how it would come out.

He had not long to wait. Faramir, once again, stepped forward and began to speak. He clearly realized that if he didn't say something then, he might never have another chance. "Father," he said quietly, "I loved Boromir too. You are right; I do not know how we have any hope to win this war without him. But I will try as hard as I am able. You have a son left, my lord, and he is willing to do the duty of two." Faramir stopped talking and whispered to himself, "Though it may kill him."

Denethor seemed not to have heard him for a long time, and he picked up the two pieces of the horn. "You say you are willing to do the duty of two," he finally muttered. "Yet you have not accomplished the duty of one. How do you expect to measure up to Boromir, who kept this country together with sheer willpower?" Denethor turned blazing eyes on his younger son. "You say it is not your fault. Nothing is ever your fault, is it?" His voice was practically a shout now. "You would lead our country down the path to ruin and damnation! Had Boromir not gone to that accursed Rivendell, he would still be here, alive, with me! And had you not had your accursed dream, he would not have ventured to the land of the elves. So I say it _is_ your fault!" He stopped for breath, running his hands over the grooves in the horn.

Faramir stepped back, taking in his breath sharply. After a pause he spoke, and his voice was cold and hard. "All my life I have tried to please you. I have pushed myself, hard, and I have done everything you have ever asked me, except when it went against my conscience. I gave up everything I loved to pursue war, and I have never complained to you, until now. Boromir was my brother, and I loved him. I too am suffering. I too...I..." Faramir stopped and bowed his head. "I can only do my best."

Tirinion let his breath out in a long, silent sigh, and he watched as Denethor slowly stood and stared down at the horn. _Surely he will relent, at least a little, _he thought. _Can he not see how his son loves him and tries to do his will?_ But Denethor was not to be shaken. He sat back down into his chair slowly, still fixing his eyes on the horn of Gondor.

"Go now, and return to your post, Faramir," Denethor said harshly. "Wage this war as best as you are able, without your brother, and may Eru Illuvátar see fit to give you help. I have given up hope that we will have the victory." He raised his eyes from the horn long enough to nod at his son. "Leave."

Faramir bowed slowly, and Tirinion had just enough time to melt into the shadows created by a niche in the wall before Faramir left the room and shut the door firmly behind him. By the light of one solitary candle burning in its fixture on the wall, Tirinion saw Faramir walk ten paces from the door and crumple against the stone wall. Dropping his head into his hands, he began to sob: deep, choking sobs welling up from inside his chest. Yet they were almost silent, and in the darkness one could not see the tears streaming down his cheeks. The utter abandonment he had just faced was too much for him, and he let his battered soul be washed by the flood of tears.

As his broken sobs died away, he raised his head and stared straight at the wall. For a moment Tirinion thought he had been found out, but then Faramir began to speak. "You call me weak, Father," Faramir murmured, his voice catching, "but you never considered what courage it takes to face you day after day after day. To stand up to you and bear you insults and accusations is more than I can take." Once again, he threw his head into his hands. "I truly believe I will die, Father. If not in the next battle, perhaps the next one, or the next. And when I have died, and you see all the work I do, will you miss me? Is that all I am to you? Someone to do your work and command your army?" His voice died to just below a whisper. "Can I never be your son?"

As he bowed his head onto his knees and began to weep quietly again, Tirinion crept silently away down the hall in the other direction. He had seen his Captain give way to his private grief, and he needed to intrude no longer. Once back in Faramir's chambers, Tirinion set to work with a will, and by the time Faramir had made his way back to his rooms, his faithful ranger had completed not only the two stacks of papers, but a third as well.

There was no reason for Faramir to do more than he must.

* * *

The next morning Tirinion answered a knock on the solid oak door, and as he opened it he beheld a cheerful, round face framed with brown curls.

"Is Faramir here?" the woman spoke, pushing her way into the room in a manner that was both forceful and graceful. As she spoke, her eye fell on the object of her question, reposing by the window. He stood with a quiet smile. She rushed toward him, grabbed his hands, and said in a scolding tone, "Faramir! You have been here all of yesterday and this morning, and you did not call on me!" Her brown eyes snapped good-naturedly at him as he laughed in spite of himself.

"I have been busy, Damla," he sighed. She hugged him roughly, and none of the usual romantic connotations presented themselves as they embraced. Tirinion slipped quietly from the room as Damla seated herself on the window seat and pulled Faramir down beside her.

Faramir and Damla had known each other since they were children. As a five year-old, Faramir had suffered a broken arm and been taken to the Houses of Healing to have the bone set. While he was there an inquisitive little four year-old had come up to him and stared at him with her big brown eyes. She was the only one he had let hold his hand as the healers bound his arm up. Since then, Damla and Faramir had had a very hasty, unannounced sort of friendship. She was the one who understood him best, besides Boromir, and it was to her he confided his deepest fears. Their relationship never progressed beyond friendship, however, for they both knew their place, and when Damla married at the age of twenty-three, their friendship moved on unperturbed. Whenever Faramir was in Minas Tirith he stopped at the Houses of Healing to say hello and to enjoy the company of Damla's three boys.

Today, Damla had pulled Faramir down beside her and was working the knots out of his shoulders as they talked. Her hands moved rhythmically, gently yet firmly, as if she was accustomed to doing this to men, women, and children alike.

"No one can sooth like you, Damla," Faramir smiled as, despite himself, he began to relax. "But can you work out three months of knots?"

"I can do anything, whenever I want," Damla rejoined. She bit her lip as she worked on a muscle clenched deep in Faramir's upper back. "Now, tell me about what's been going on."

A sigh was all the answer she received, and she shook her head. "Ah, that's right. I forgot." Her hands never stopped working, but the two of them sat in silence for a long time. They had known each other so long no words were needed to lighten the wordlessness in the room, and it was only after a full five minutes that Damla said softly, "I heard in the market-place."

Faramir's shoulders went limp. Damla continued to rub as he put a hand up to his face and began weeping, slowly, grudgingly. "I shouldn't be mourning," he groaned. "I should be working. I should be starting back to Ithilien. I have to do work for both of us now...'

"No," Damla cut in. "I simply won't allow it. I'm the healer, remember? You are worn thin as it is, and you have not been eating or sleeping sufficiently. I will not stand by and see you work yourself to death."

"No one gets enough sleep or food nowadays, Damla," Faramir sighed. "Someone _must_ do the work. The men will follow no one but..."

"But who their Lord Steward tells them to follow. I know you, Far. You are ready to kill yourself to please him." Faramir was silent, and Damla's hands grew rougher. As she spoke she worked at his back until it began to get red under his shirt. "I can guess how your meeting with him went last night. 'Very good Faramir, for telling me all this, now go do it three times over and get it right.' I know you are aching, Far, I know you need--"

"I don't want to talk about it," Faramir cut in, standing up and walking to the other side of the room. He bent over the mantle and rested his head on his fist. Damla waited, drawing her knees up and spreading her skirt over them. Faramir looked down at the stonework and then up at his brown-haired companion. "Damla, I can't lie to you. I _have_ to do this, now. I have to try to save Gondor, in whatever way I can. It doesn't matter if I die, don't you see? I have already nothing to live for."

Damla turned to the window and brushed something out of her eye. "Faramir, you don't need to prove your worth to that man."

"Yes. Yes I do. Do you want to know why?" Faramir turned toward Damla, looking her straight in the eye. She eyed him back, clasping her hands on her knees. "I need to know he cares because...because his opinion is the only one that matters. No matter how many people tell me I do something well, or that they love and admire me, they are _just_ people. It doesn't really matter unless I love them back, and I respect their opinion. And I do love him, Damla. I do."

Damla stood and walked over to the young captain. Laying a hand on his back, she whispered, "I know. Believe me...I know." There was another long pause, and she again began rubbing gently on his muscles. Then: "I don't know if this counts, Far, but I think we've known each other for quite some time and...I think you worth something. I think there are reasons for you to live. I...I love you, Faramir. Even if nobody else does, I love you. I'll never love you like he could. I'll never love you like...Boromir...could. I'll never love you like whoever your future wife is will. But I do love you. A lot."

Faramir bowed his head and, turning, he hugged her short frame to his tall one. "Thank you," he said softly. "You don't know how much this means to me."

"Yes Far, I do. You've done it for me so many times," Damla smiled, wiping her own tears. Then, pulling away, she scrubbed embarrassedly at her eyes. "You must come see the boys, Faramir! They have grown so much."

Faramir smiled. "I'd like that Damla. A lot."

* * *

Later, as Damla was exiting the room, she spied Tirinion perched on a wide windowsill across from the door. She immediately went over to him, and placing her hands on the windowsill, she hoisted herself onto the seat next to the ranger. "Whew. I'm not as spry as I once was," she smiled. Tirinion held out his hand.

"My name is Tirinion," he said. She took his hand and pumped it up and down. "Glad to meet you. I'm Damla."

They looked at each other for a long time, and then Damla said abruptly, "Keep an eye on him for me."

Tirinion nodded. "He's had a hard blow."

Damla snorted. "He's had a hard blow? You don't know anything about him and having hard blows. Trust me." Then she shook her head. "Sorry, that was rude. Yes, he has had a hard blow."

Tirinion folded his hands behind his head and leaned back against the side of the window. "What was he like as a child, Miss?" he asked.

"Oh, call me Damla!" the woman smiled. "I don't think I've ever been called 'Miss' before in my life. As a child? Much like he is now, only perhaps more whimsical and less talkative. I think he'd still be less talkative if his father hadn't hammered it out of him." When Damla talked of Faramir's father she screwed her face up into a grimace. "He wouldn't be half as good a soldier if it wasn't for his father, though he'd be twice as good a scholar. Still--" Damla sighed. "Sometimes I think he wouldn't be as good a man if he didn't have Denethor as a father."

Tirinion frowned. "Thee must know what the Steward is like."

"Better than most," she said quietly. "Perhaps better than all. You see, Faramir tells me his secrets. Secrets I won't ever repeat, but neither will I forget. I wonder what turned that man sour."

Tirinion sat up a little more. "What did he do to the Captain? Things are always rumored in the army, yet never spoken. The Captain himself is more silent than a stone."

Damla laughed. "Aye, that too he learned from his father. But I won't tell you what he did to him. It is sufficient to say he was no father to him—never has been. I must keep Fama's secrets." She paused, taking a breath. "Please, Tirinion, watch over him. The Steward has always driven his sons very, very hard, and now he will drive Faramir harder still. Faramir will gladly lay down his life for his country and his father, and I worry for him. Please make sure he takes care of himself." As Damla spoke, she looked earnestly into the face of the young man, and mirrored in his brown eyes she saw her own anxiety.

"Don't worry," Tirinion promised. "If it lies in my power, I'll keep him safe. The rest we must trust to Eru."

* * *

**End Notes**

_Damla was a last minute addition--indeed, I added her after I started the next chapter. However, I like the touch she added. She represents a rock Faramir can cling to, and symbolizes that he's not lost. He has someone there for him. I'll also bring her in again later--she'll be awesome in the Houses of Healing sequence. _

_This chapter really is Faramir's last opportunity to win his Father's love. Of course he did not, and as we all know the story, it only gets sadder from here on out. But I wanted to try todo a good portrayal of when Faramir gives his father Boromir's horn. I think that's a key moment in the saga of Faramir, because that's really when he comes to grips with his brother's death and his father's animosity. From here on he's waiting for death, really—hoping for it, and not caring should it come. _

_His talk with Damla puts into words what I feel is Faramir's real secret. That is why he's so complex, and why so few understand him. He needs his father's favor and love because he loves his father and respects him so much. It's a concept that's sometimes hard to understand, I think, but oh so true. There, in a nutshell, is Faramir's heart and soul._


	3. Powerless

_Please forgive me for skipping a week--I promised myself I wouldn't do that, but then again, I break a lot of promises to myself. At least the notes in this chapter are short!_

_A warm thank you to everyone who reviewed! **KaliedescopeCat**, I'm thrilled that you equated my story with Finding Neverland, because I love that movie, and I like their relationship. **Lindahoyland**, thank you for pointing that out...oops! And **Sarahbarr17**, I'm sorry if you find the 'thees' and 'thous' utterly offensive, but I'm afraid I'm going to stick to them. (Thanks for the otherwise very generous review!) So, my dear__ readers, you'll just have to suffer a bit longer (although I did try to go over them again). _

_For some reason the dividing lines do not want to work, so you will have to be content with Os. My apologies. __Breket and Circuran belong to me._

**Chapter Three**

The two rangers spoke very little on their return journey. Tirinion thought he was beginning to be able to read his Captain's moods somewhat; he knew that when he wore the unreadable, pensive, empty expression things were all too turbulent inside the young captain.

From time to time Tirinion stole a glance at Faramir as he rode beside him. The steward's son was at least five years his junior, but repeatedly Tirinion felt that he himself was the younger, less experienced one. The Captain's mental capacity seemed beyond his comprehension, and he marveled that he could lead so efficiently and at the same time cope with his obvious personal struggles. Not that the Captain made them obvious...but they were obvious nonetheless.

Tirinion was like all the other men in wondering why the Steward saw such small worth in his younger son. Some said it was because Finduilas, the Steward's late wife, had been severely weakened after his birth, and Denethor blamed him for his mother's death. The maiden from Dol Amroth had been, in the Steward's eyes, almost a goddess, and when she had died he had shriveled into himself. Some said _that_ was the reason for his obvious dislike of Faramir. Others said it was because Faramir resembled his mother, but thought like his father, and hence he was able to read his father's heart better than anyone. Therefore the Steward disliked the boy from childhood and mistreated him.

Whatever the reason (though in the end, all roads led back to when Finduilas had died) it was clear that Faramir had no easy relationship between him and his father. Boromir, as it were, had been his only real family, and now that he was gone—Tirinion could have wept for Faramir, had it not been that no such display of emotions would be welcomed by the solitary-minded captain.

Boromir's position had not been envied, either. As the heir to the Stewardship, he was not only under immense pressure from his Father to excel in everything, but he more often than not tried his best to smooth over the relationship between his younger brother and his father. It had been the most difficult in his early manhood, when he went off to the army and his brother was left at home with Denethor. But that time, like the rest, had passed, and even he, the flower of Gondor, some said, and the heart of Gondor, others said, was now gone. In his place stood the smaller brother, shouldering the load of two. And yet often Tirinion thought perhaps it was a blessing that Gondor still had the son she kept.

Boromir was the impetuous, big-hearted, display knight. He was the kind of general men followed because they saw something in him that was big, that was proud, and that gave them courage. He was first in everything. He was the first son. He was the first man to turn to for victory. And he was the first man to toast with foaming cup the victory and roar out a speech.

Faramir was the quiet, inconspicuous, unassuming soldier. He was the Captain that men followed because they loved him. He exuded an unconscious command, and he gave them something more important than courage; he gave them hope. He was the last in everything. He was the second, unwanted son. He was the last man to leave the field of battle. And he was the last man to leave the sick and wounded to their fates after the battle was won, or lost.

Tirinion crept out of his silence only as they approached Henneth Anûn and were hailed by the quiet bird calls of the men hidden in the bushes. It was not long until Faramir and Tirinion had put their horses away and were back in the cave behind the waterfall.

As he stowed his pack next to the mattress on which he slept, Tirinion heard his name being uttered, and he turned at once to see Rochion smiling and pushing toward him. Tirinion himself grinned and clasped his brother's hand.

"Greetings, brother," Rochion said warmly. "How was thy trip?"

"Tiring," Tirinion answered, "But I am sincerely glad I went with him."

Rochion's smile vanished. "Was he, then, ill received?"

Tirinion sighed. "'Ill' would not be my choice of word. Perhaps better would be 'hostilely' or even 'angrily' received."

Rochion pulled his brother toward a niche in the wall and forced him to sit. "Tell me everything." His dark eyes were smoky, whether with anger or sorrow, Tirinion was not sure.

"Well, 'twas just as I thought. Denethor was cold and distant, and the Captain tried with all his heart to win his father over." Tirinion looked at his brother and shook his head. "That's all he wants, Roch. He wants recognition and...love. To hear his father say once that he is proud of him. Thou seest it written plainly all over his face."

At that minute Tirinion and Rochion caught sight of Faramir at the far end of the room, pulling off his cloak and flinging it on his cot. He stood for a minute, staring at the bed, and then turned and gazed out the window. As still as a statue he watched the moon riding high in the sky, and it almost seemed that he had been turned to stone by its pale light. But suddenly the young man's shoulders began to quiver, and he bowed his head with a clear motion of defeat. It took only a second for him to gain control again and force his shoulders to stop shaking, but in that second the pain lying underneath showed through. Tirinion gave a significant glance at his brother, who nodded mutely.

"Thou seest?" Tirinion asked. Rochion nodded again.

"Aye," he murmured, watching as Faramir ran a hand through his hair and walked to a table at the other end of the room where a map was spread out. "But alas, there is naught that we can do."

"Naught but be his friend and ally," Tirinion corrected. "I will be there for him." His words echoed strangely ominously in the quiet cave, and the brothers looked at each other for a long moment. Then, with a smile, Tirinion clapped his brother on the shoulder and stood to partake of food.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Late that night as the men lay sleeping in their blankets, a silent figure stood in a familiar spot, watching the place where the moon had long since disappeared. It was only every so often that he moved even a muscle, but once in a while he raised a hand to wipe his face almost desperately.

On his cot, Tirinion struggled awake from the depths of sleep, shivering as his skin touched the night air. He reached down to get his blanket and caught sight of the silent guardian. Without hesitating, he pulled his blanket over his shoulders and stood up noiselessly. Through the dark he crept toward the lighted window, until the Captain's low voice asked, "A nightmare, Tirinion?"

The man nodded, shrugging the blanket on better. "Aye. I do not remember it, only that it was terrible."

Faramir clasped his hands behind his back and nodded slowly. "Many times I do not remember what I dream, either."

Tirinion hesitated for a second before asking, "What doth thou see for us, Captain?"

Faramir turned to face him, studying his features. "What do you mean?"

"Thou dreamest of many things," Tirinion said softly, "And many come true. What doth thou see for us? Will we prevail? Or will evil win?"

Faramir turned back to the night scene and sighed almost silently. "I do not know. I dream of darkness, sometimes. I see the fall of Numenor over and over, and then a great wave rising up and engulfing us all. But I dream just as often about days of peace, and I can see the white tree flowering and people laughing." The edges of his mouth turned up as the warmth of his words filled his heart. "That is something that I seldom hear anymore, Tirinion. Laughter, I mean. But perhaps it is partially my fault." The last sentence was more to himself than to his companion, and he looked down as he said it.

"Aye," Tirinion said gently, glancing out the window at the trees. "There is seldom laughter heard nowadays. But 'tis not thy fault, Captain. Thou art a good Captain, and well loved. We would wish for no other man to lead us."

Faramir smiled just a little and nodded. "Yes, I see that. And I want to thank you, especially for coming with me to Minis Tirith. Sometimes—" he broke off and turned abruptly away. "Well, anyway, it is late."

Tirinion wanted to know what his Captain had been about to say, for he felt that could Faramir just liberate his heart of its burden, he would feel better. But he merely said, "Thou must rest, Captain."

Faramir nodded and turned back toward him. "And you too. We have much to be on out toes for."

As Tirinion crept back to his cot, he saw Faramir slip into his own bed and relax, his form going limp almost at once. With a smile of relief, Tirinion fell asleep to pleasant dreams.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Two days passed in a heartbeat, filled with the usual comings and goings of the wooded hideout. Patrols were dispatched, came back, and even a few sightings of smoke were reported, but in all nothing happened to merit notice.

And then, as Tirinion was just entering the strong-hold after a tiring patrol, a messenger was reported to have been seen slipping silently through the woods toward them. The men all tried hard to be nonchalant as the man talked with Captain Faramir, but soon the words were spreading like wildfire: _An army was sighted just south of here._

All the rangers knew what that meant. They would be fighting, soon—ambushing the unsuspecting Haradhrim. Some of the men felt excitement, but the majority knew too much of war to relish the idea of battle, even an ambush.

Every man knew his position. Bows were prepared for stringing, arrows fletched, knives sharpened, and masks laid out in preparation for the next day, when the Haradhrim would be in the right position for attack. All day Faramir went over plan after plan with his Captains, rehearsing the situation. They had oliphaunts? Then Breket would cut them off and use ropes to dispatch of them. They had foot soldiers? Then Circuran would ambush them at the southern bend. And so on it ran, until every detail had been worked out.

As evening fell, Tirinion found his Captain leaning against the window where the water splashed down to the depths. Through the sheet of water one could see the golden sunset, almost blinding in its brightness highlighted by the brilliantly clear water. The darkness in the East grew more with each passing day, but not so much yet that the sun could not be seen in all its glory.

Faramir's face was shadowed by the stone, but through the gloom Tirinion thought he saw him smiling, if only slightly. "What pleases thou, Captain?" he asked quietly. Faramir startled a little as he heard his voice, but did not turn.

"It is nothing—an impulse, really. Or perhaps a feeling. Something will happen tomorrow—something that will change the fates of us all in this war," Faramir replied, his voice just above a whisper. Suddenly he turned to Tirinion. "You must think me mad," he said wryly, and his eyes were uncommonly bright in his lean face.

Tirinion shook his head, his own smile a good deal brighter that his Captain's. "Nay. I have come to trust thy predictions."

"Is it a curse?" Faramir asked moodily, turning back towards the water. "It is a blessing? No—I don't believe it _could_ be a blessing. Not like—not like it has been."

Tirinion sighed. "I know not, my lord."

Faramir glanced over his shoulder suddenly, his piercing look fixing on the man behind him. "Why do I divulge these things to you?" he asked, more to himself than to the man from Belfalas. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he looked back at the waterfall.

Tirinion furrowed his brow. "Every man needs a friend, sir." He placed emphasis on the word _friend_, as if by merely saying it he could become his Captain's companion. "No man can live life apart and cut off from others."

Suddenly Faramir's shoulders trembled, and to Tirinion's surprise, he did nothing to stop them. A queer laugh escaped the young Captain's lips, and he said softly. "I shiver, Tirinion. Like a horse shivers at the smell of fire, I shiver at the smell of fear."

"Thou hast never shown fear in battle, Captain," Tirinion said, trying hard to think of something better to say. "Thou never blamed us for showing fear—why should thee be any different?" Faramir shook his head. "It is different." With one final shudder, he raised his head and his shoulders stopped. Turning, he looked Tirinion in the eye almost harshly. "Men do not follow a Captain who shows fear and anguish. I am held to a higher standard...one that I cannot let down." His face softened as he laid a heavy hand on Tirinion's shoulder. "But I thank you that you have allowed me an outlet to my sorrow. It will not happen again."

It was a promise, and Tirinion knew he would keep it. "Aye, sir." Was all he said.

As Faramir brushed past him into the darkness of the cave, Tirinion lowered his head and looked at the tips of his dusty boots. _Whatever the outcome of this war,_ he thought morosely, _'Tis not worth the price we are paying._

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The next day dawned red as blood. However, after the final fingers of red left the sky, the sun shone through as brightly and strongly as ever. The men were already up and ready to leave, swarming out of the caves silently and grimly, masks and capes pulled low over skin.

Tirinion and Rochion had broken bread together, and there was an understanding between them that had lasted through all their days as rangers. Neither mentioned that this might be their last meal together in words, but before they put their gear on, they clasped hands once, looked each other in the eye, and nodded. Both knew from long experience that it was likely one would die in the next battle or skirmish, but they did not need to make a big show. The words simply did not need to be said.

None would have guessed, looking at their Captain now, how broken he had appeared beside the waterfall last night. His coolness was perfect; if he was worried about his men following him, he needn't have been. If there was one thing Faramir of Gondor understood, it was the need to lay all personal fears and feelings aside when the time for battle came. One needed a completely clear head.

None of the men talked as they crept noiselessly through the forest, and before long they came upon their positions and slipped amongst the trees and bracken as silently as they had slipped from the caves. A rustle here, a crack there—and all was as silent as before. The birds began singing again—indeed, they had never stopped. All was peaceful in the woods. The sun filtered down through the trees as if there were no men perched in their branches; the wind played just as gently with the long, heavy-topped grass, never guessing the weight of men crouching inside the coarse stalks.

Tirinion, standing in a tree with his bow at the ready and arrow drawn, sniffed the wind uncomfortably. His Captain's foretelling of the days events had cast a shadow over his mind. _What could he have meant?_ he thought moodily. _What does this day hold in store for us?_ It was not like him to be unsettled by a shadowy thought, but something about the way his Captain's eyes were so bright yesterday...

He suddenly held a hand up to his eyes, shading them against the glare of the already bright sun. There, on the horizon...was that smoke? Surely it could not be from the Haradhrim, who would not be here until mid-morning at the earliest. A shiver ran up his spine. _Whatever it is about this day that is different, _he thought, _that smoke holds the answer._ His thoughts were dragged from the smoke on the horizon by his companion shifting uncomfortably. The man smiled apologetically and waved a hand over his brow to signify heat. Tirinion nodded. Already the day was uncommonly hot, and he did not relish the idea of having to fight through the heat.

As silent as shadows, the men waited. The sun rose in the sky, and when it was almost above their heads, riding high in the heavens, a sharp birdcall whistled through the trees. The men stiffened. Soon, very soon now, they would see what the lookout already saw. The Haradhrim were coming. Tirinion strained his eyes and squinted toward the horizon. There, he could see the crest of a flag waving above the trees. It was blood red. A horn sounded, blaring loud and foggy in the woodland calm. In less than a quarter of an hour, the Haradhrim would be riding through the trees they crouched in.

Through the branches of the trees, Tirinion could just see Faramir slipping silently down from the oak opposite his own chestnut and slip through the grass toward more of his men. Giving last minute advice and encouragement, no doubt. Tirinion tightened his buckle and grinned stoically. If it was a fight these southern men wanted, it was a fight they would get.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

_Pull, release, grab, pull, release, grab..._ Tirinion went through the motions of shooting his bow without even thinking about it. Almost every shot was successful, and all around him Haradhrim were dying. The oliphaunts were going mad, the horns were blaring, and it had become a complete rout. Yet, if he thought, he might know that some of his fellow rangers were dying too. So he simply shot, arrow after arrow, and after all his arrows were spent, he slipped down and partook in the work of hand-to-hand combat.

The southern men were confused and desperate, but they were still fierce fighters, and it was no easy battle. Tirinion soon found himself alongside a score of other rangers, and together they created havoc of the enemy amongst them. The oliphaunts had long since deserted and run, crazed, through the woods. Then he was beside a familiar form, and a voice that belonged to none other than Captain Faramir shouted, "Gondor! Gondor!" Several of the archers that still had arrows broke away and scaled a group of trees near them and began picking off enemies one by one. Tirinion smiled briefly at his Captain and continued pursuing the southern men.

"How is thy count, Captain?" he asked shortly, as he ran a burly man through with his quick blade.

"Not bad. We are making excellent time. Yours?" Faramir gasped, panting for more air through the muggy weather.

"Almost—watch out!" Tirinion called, throwing Faramir's attention around just in time for the young man to catch the butt of a club on his forehead. He wheeled backwards, clutching at the air. If Tirinion had not killed the man for Faramir, doubtless the life of the Steward's son would have ended there. Tirinion helped Faramir up and handed him his sword.

"Canst thou see, Captain?" he asked half in concern, half in humor. Faramir nodded wryly.

"Yes, I can see. Thank you, Tirnion. I'd be dead now if not for you," Faramir said. Shaking himself again, he looked around. The Haradhrim had been routed. Here and there were groups of men still fighting, but overall the outcome was in the rangers' favor. The only sign of the great oliphaunts was the broken trees and bushes where they had fled.

"It is over," Faramir sighed, massaging his arm and sheathing his sword. For a moment he looked as if a great weight had been lifted from his mind, and then suddenly it was all back with reinforcements. "But the enemies will come soon, when they hear of what we have done. And then there are the Halflings."

"The Halflings?" Tirinion asked, looking up in surprise. "What Halflings?"

"Several others and myself found two small Halflings hiding in the woods earlier," Faramir said shortly as he tightened his girth and found his bow. "I left them in the care of Mablung and Damrod."

Tirinion suddenly smiled, though he wasn't quite sure why. "Are the tales and children's fables coming true?" he laughed. Faramir smiled.

"I know naught about that, but I do know that there is business to attend to." Turning, he whistled sharply, and men began to fall in behind him and mount the hill.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The interview that followed with the Halfling Frodo, son of Drogo, and Samwise son of Hamfast was of a highly interesting and even amusing nature to Tirinion and Rochion, who had found each other again, each being unharmed. Frodo spoke with learning and wisdom, and what might even be called grace in one so small and oddly formed. Tirinion found himself admiring the way his Captain handled the situation, although he was not quite sure Faramir trusted the little hobbits yet. By his manner of speaking, which was gracious yet stern, and by his mistrust and guardedness against giving anything away, yet finding out as much as possible from the hobbits, Faramir showed another side to his nature.

Faramir was not as soft-hearted as he would seem. Perhaps if he had not been forced into war he would have been more open and trusting, but in any case, the Captain of Gondor was stern and wise with his questions. Words that meant nothing were not used, and still many words were used, for Faramir made things very clear for his Halfling guests. When the interview was over, he gave the signal and the men broke off until the only ones left were Tirinion, Mablung and Damrod.

"Come," Faramir said in a low voice to his rangers. "We must take these Halflings with us, for I would question them more closely."

"Captain," Mablung said, his voice almost a whisper, "they mustn't see the way. 'Twould be disastrous if they are spies of the enemy."

Faramir rubbed his chin roughly. "That I doubt," he finally said, "but it is better to be safe than sorry. We shall blindfold them where we must." With that, he started off toward their hideout. Tirinion and Mablung each guided a hobbit; Damrod took the rear. Along the way, the Halflings gazed with wide eyes at the beauties of the woods they passed through. Every now and then one would say something very softly to the other. Ithilien was indeed something to be astounded by, unless taken for granted, as by the rangers who patrolled it. Even they were, at times, delighted by its natural beauty.

"Do you find this land superior to the land you have recently been traveling through, Master Baggins?" Faramir asked as they passed a waterfall. He turned toward them, though his eyes were hidden in the depths of his hood. Frodo nodded cautiously. "Yes," he replied, "the land is indeed very beautiful. It—" he paused momentarily, "—it makes me think of my own homeland." Frodo shook his head and lapsed into silence.

They continued for some time before Faramir beckoned Tirinion to walk with him ahead. Facing straight forward, Faramir said softly, "Tirinion, something stirs within my heart when I look into the eyes of these Halflings, and I know they hide some great secret. Yet I do not believe them to be evil."

Tirinion nodded slightly. "I sense that too. I do not trust their story, however. The third friend—where might he be?"

Faramir's silence told his friend he knew not. Suddenly, he halted. Turning to the hobbits, he pulled his hood back slightly. "Here we must blindfold your eyes," he said gently, "the way to our lair is a secret, and it is not for the eyes of strangers." Frodo and Sam nodded, and allowed their eyes to be blindfolded. Faramir motioned for Mablung and Damrod to place their hands on the hobbits' shoulders and guide them. Thus they walked, and when the way was very steep they carried the hobbits. Faramir often said something to his men, mostly, Tirinion thought, to reassure the hobbits that he was still there, in charge, and no harm would come to them. They reached the caverns shortly after the last of the other men did.

"Take their blindfolds off," Faramir said, pulling his hood off and wiping an arm across his forehead. "Give them refreshment and a place to rest until the evening meal." With that, he strode off into the shadows of the room. To Frodo and Sam, it seemed strange and unreal to be led through the cavern to a bed where they were bidden lie down and rest. But the evening was to unfold much information and make many things known.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Tirinian saw no more of his Captain that evening, besides briefly at the evening meal, until late that night, after the Halflings had retired and many of the men lay sleeping on pallets on the floor. He and Rochien were talking in hushed voices by the flickering of a lamp, when suddenly Rochien nodded his head in the direction of a shadow moving toward a small balcony jutting out high over the cliff. A doorway led to it from the inside. Faramir passed through the doorway swiftly, and the brothers could see no more of him.

"He goes to ponder whatever weighty news he has learned from the Halflings," Rochien whispered. "Eru grant him wisdom. I do not doubt he will."

Tirinien shook his head slowly. "The men say he learned more of his brother's death," he said, looking into his brother's eyes. "I confess I know not whether that is good or ill."

Rochien sighed and lay down on his blanket. "I know not—though I should not trust rumors, if I were thee."

Tirinion gazed at the doorway for a moment before he too lay down. "Grant the Captain peace tonight," he whispered to the darkness.

Outside, Faramir extended both arms and leaned against the rock ledge. His head fell between his shoulders, and a low moan escaped his lips. The ever-present sound of water filled the silence, broken now and then with a mournful bird-call. "How much more?" he asked of the stillness, "how much more can I take?" He raised his head to look at the moon, staring down unflinchingly over the land that bore its name. "Why do you ask this of me? Why _this_?" He shook his head miserably. "I know what I must do, and what I must not do. I know what I must tell him. Why do you require this decision of me? Better that I had never bothered with Frodo and Sam, and had let them go their way, or better yet, never knew they existed."

His hands dropped, and he slumped against the cold stone. "How much do you wish me to suffer before I die?"

His words hung in the air, and he shivered slightly at the threat they held. Yet he did not look any differently on his life. Should Eru take his life in this war, he would not regret it.

Faramir tipped his head back and once more looked long and hard at the moon. "I will not be selfish and believe I am the only one with trials. But if I could have one thing—one moment of joy—ah," he broke off and stood suddenly. "That is foolishness. I have a duty to do, and there is no one but I who can strive to protect Gondor. Alas, Boromir, if only Gondor had both her sons now. But I, alone, the lesser of the two, am left to defend her and keep the hearts of her people strong. A strange mockery that my own heart is the deadest of all."

The stone was unchanged as he left the cliff and returned inside to partake of rest.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The next morning the hobbits were set free, and the men whispered softly among each other. Faramir did not hear them, or if he did, he pretended not to. He talked in a fervent voice with the hobbits before they left, and ordered that their packs be filled with provisions. And after they left Faramir went and stood at the waterfall, staring down into the turbulent depths as the minutes stretched longer and longer. Finally, as he watched the blood-tinged sky with the sun in the midst like an orb, he said softly, "Alas for Boromir, my brother who I loved so. Alas that I should take his place, and alas that he who was so noble in life should be so ignoble in death." He bowed his head for a long moment, fighting to overcome his emotions. "I wish to hear more of your death, brother," he whispered at last. "Perhaps there is ought still to know—details that Frodo knew nothing of. I will not believe the worst yet."

As the sun dipped behind the horizon, Faramir went back down to the caverns.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

_This chapter presented peculiar difficulties to me, because I was not sure whether to follow the book or the movie. I ended up mixing and skipping them both, because it's SO HARD to write canon! I also wanted to portray Faramir in his tough mode—he wasn't a pansy, and I felt that I was being too clingy with him. He's always breaking down etc. So I must try for more of a balance. Thus, this chapter is a mix of them both, as you must see. That is also why it was so hard to write. I know things seem a little dark right now, but this was a very dark time in Faramir's life. So hang in there—I promise things will get brighter after they get much, much worse. But you know the story._

_I could NOT remember whether it's 'Haradrim' or 'Haradhrim'. Will someone please tell me?_


	4. The Failing Fight

_Notes: I am afraid I must jump now, my dear readers, to somewhat later in the story. I know exactly how you feel about skipping the parts in-between, for I feel the same way. Those parts should be written, and the actions and thoughts exposed, shouldn't they? But in my attempt to write about them, I now realize why Tolkien and all fanfic authors skip over those few days. The problem is simply that nothing much happened. Meals were eaten, plans made, skirmishes fought, and rest taken. Were I a master storyteller, I could no doubt read between Tolkien's lines and write something about those days. But I am only a humble fanfic writer, and therefore, dear readers, we find ourselves in Osgiliath._

_As soon as I saw the scene in The Return of the King:EE where the soldier gets shot by the orcs, I knew I wanted to use it in this story. I'm sorry about the shameful blend of movie and book canon I've produced, but I really just like parts from both! So I took the best of both world, you could say. _

_In this chapter I focused mainly on Faramir's growing sense of inadequacy and failure. As his father blamed him more and more, he saw for real what failure there was in Gondor. To have someone blaming you, and yourself seeing what was happening—well, it's no wonder he blamed himself. Any captain would have, especially at this time. _

**Chapter Four: The Failing Fight**

Faramir paced the wall steadily, his boots echoing in measured beats. Beats to match the beat of his heart, thumping ever-steadily in his chest. Beats to play with the voices below, hovering around the fires where men congregated, and create a musical rhythm. Beats to quell the fear in his breast.

Faramir had ever become more calm outwardly as he felt more panic inwardly. The bubbles of fear, rising to his brain and hoping desperately to be figured out, did nothing to his outward appearance. His footsteps never wavered in there steady pacing. His head, however, ached and throbbed after so long trying to strategize the best possible plan for saving his men. His only duty now, as the darkness closed in on them, was to cling to a false hope that he could hardly believe in anymore, and try with all his strength to save as many men as he could.

With Boromir gone, his burden had only increased, but he did not grudge it. He knew that his duty was to keep the hopes of his men alive now, and it was a sore task without his big brother. Faramir felt hopelessly inferior when it came to raising the troops' moral. Boromir had been a natural leader, and wherever he went, the men took heart just by seeing his boyish grin and proud eyes. He had been unparalleled as a strategist, too. Battles had been turned because of Boromir's ability to plan, and his reckless courage while fighting them. The captains had beset Faramir with questions of every shape and size as soon as he had set foot in Osgiliath, and now he knew what his brother had dealt with while he had hidden in Ithilien.

Faramir knew he could not do what his brother could, but someone had to try. Gondor had but one of her sons, now, and Faramir knew that the men were grasping—grasping for whatever hope they could find. If Boromir was no more, Faramir would do. They were kidding themselves, he knew that. Faramir could never quite lose hope completely, but he knew just how great the threat was, and he knew that all it took was one time. One slip of the sword. One wrong duck. One mistaken look.

It was the fact that so many lives depended on his orders that had, and always would, weighed on his mind. It caused him to think twice about every plan he made, every order he gave. He had told Boromir, once, that he could never forgive himself for letting so many men die under his command. Boromir had looked at him seriously—more seriously, in fact, than Faramir had ever seen him before or since. "Fama," he said firmly, using the childhood name Faramir still allowed him to use, "you can't blame yourself. If you do, you will go insane." Faramir knew he had been right, but it was still hard to release himself from the blame. And now that Boromir was gone, Faramir had yet another thing to wonder about. Could he have done something different to prevent his brother's death? His mind protested, assuring him that he could have done nothing; indeed, he had even tried to go in Boromir's stead, but Faramir pushed the comforting thoughts aside. He had no need for excuses.

_Beat, beat, beat._

Faramir's mind ran faster and faster; his footsteps stayed steady. If only he could hold off the shadow a little longer. Just a little. It was becoming a game, now—keeping back the shadow for a few more days, giving the people of Minas Tirith a few more moments of life and laughter—if there was any laughter still in the White City. Faramir often wondered about the lands where there was still laughter in abundance. He knew there were such places; the land of the two hobbits, for instance, sounded as if it was steeped in laughter and mirth. Faramir's heart ached with longing to hear the sound of laughter without the hard tint of fear in it. He had never known laughter without that hard edge. For as long as he had been alive he had sensed an urgency, a scared longing in the laughter of his people. It was as if they knew the time for laughter had passed, yet they fought to keep the moments of mirth.

Faramir could not remember the last time he himself had laughed. _Truly_ laughed; of course he had given the quick, harsh laugh of a man who finds his companion still alive after a battle. He had laughed appreciatively of another man's joke, spoken to quell fear. He had laughed in embarrassment and confusion. But he had not laughed really and truly for a long, long time. _That's what I want,_ he suddenly thought, _I want to laugh, just once, before I die. Just one more time._

Faramir stopped, suddenly realizing that his thoughts had run a thousand miles from where they were needed, and he shook his head back into submission. They were expecting an attack soon—the signs from Mordor could not be misread. He would speak with Rilbon about which side the orcs would likely chose first.

Up ahead, he could vaguely make out the shape of a man through the smoky gloom hanging over Osgiliath. A man in armor—new armor, by the glint and fit. _It must be one of my rangers,_ he thought. They he saw the heavy cloak about the man's shoulders, and knew him at once. "Rochien," he said softly, "what holds your attention so closely?" Rochien's posture was as alert and taunt as the string on a bow. He did not even seem to notice Faramir's question. Faramir frowned. "Rochien?" he asked. "What do you see?"

He was almost beside the man now, and he sensed at once that something was not right. His hand was stretching out to grasp Rochien's arm and draw him back from the stone window when he heard the sharp song of a bowstring and Rochien fell back almost on top of him. Faramir was knocked off balance as Rochien crashed down the stairs, alerting men from their fires. Faramir saw Rochien's face as he himself was thrown against the stone wall; the ranger's eyes were filled with horror and surprise. Surprised by the suddenness of the attack, no doubt. Surprised that he could do nothing. Surprised that his end had finally come.

As the dust settled where the ranger had fallen, Faramir picked himself up and watched as men scurried to the fallen man's side. Faramir began down the steps, heedless of the slippery blood at the bottom of the stairs. The men seemed to part for him, all except Rilbon, who had taken Rochien's helmet off. His eyes were wide as he looked up at Faramir.

"He's dead," he said softly, his voice betraying the fact that he did not believe his own words. "The arrow was aimed well." He looked down again at the lifeless body of Rochien, then up at Faramir, as if pleading with his captain to tell him what to do. Faramir's throat went dry. He knelt beside the body and reached out with one hand.

"Oh Eru," he said hoarsely as his hand touched the still-warm face. His fingers traveled down to the shaft of the arrow, protruding from the man's chest. Somehow it had survived the fall without breaking. "Orcs," he whispered. "They are attacking." His mouth knew the truth before his mind did, and he didn't respond at once. The men shifted uncomfortably as he stared blankly at Rochien. Finally, Faramir whispered something in another language, and kissed the dead man's brow.

When he looked up, his eyes glinted with the light of the captain. "This can mean but one thing," he said in a soft, yet strangely hard voice. "Everyone to the river. Now."

The men obeyed without a word, and they turned as a body toward the place where the river and the city met and merged. Faramir hurried forward, urging his men to grab their arms and draw near the river. As he passed a fire closely gathered around by men, he caught sight of Tirinion, his eyes wide with confusion and fear. Faramir checked and turned toward him. Catching hold of his arm, he said, "Stay with me this night." If either made it out alive, Faramir wanted to be the one to tell Tirinion about his brother.

It was with grim silence that the men gathered at the river, hiding behind the stone arches and walls to surprise their surprisers. Faramir felt sweat break out on his face, and around him he saw the pale countenances and fearful eyes of his soldiers. For the millionth time, Faramir felt the same yawning grief at what his men faced. The familiar feeling that he was inadequate to lead them to victory grasped his heart, and he ached to think of the wives and families he was letting down. The men who trusted him so much would now see firsthand how little they could really trust him. He had failed them again. This time though—this time he had completely failed them. He had known they would have to face the orcs sometime, but he had hoped it would be on their own terms, and at their own time. Not in the middle of the night, surprised from sleep and rest and in their own city.

Faramir threw his back against a stone wall, his drawn sword cold in his sweating hands. He closed his eyes momentarily, then opened them to see Tirinion across from him. The ranger from Belfast nodded shortly, but in his eyes Faramir saw the same rank fear that was in every other ranger's eyes. The soldiers were used to this free-for all slaughter and close quarter fighting. The rangers were not. They were prepared to fight in the woods and trees, with bows and other missiles. No doubt the thought of fighting hand-to-hand with the orcs made them all the more certain of death.

_Is this it, Eru?_ Faramir asked suddenly, his grip tightening. _Is this where I make my end? If it must be my end, let me make it a worthy one. Let them not say of Faramir of Gondor that he died as a coward, and fought not bravely in his last stand. If, that is, there is anyone left to say anything._

Faramir's sharp hearing picked up a sudden sound of oars hitting water, and his heartbeat quickened. The orcs were upon them now, and all Faramir could think of was how long it was taking them to row into the little enclaves and land their boats. Surely they must be at the arches now! Then the first boat ran aground, and the night air was suddenly overtaken with the ugly screams and yells of the orcs. Faramir allowed the first few to pass by, using monumental self-control. Then, knowing his men would follow his lead, he threw himself out from behind the wall and attacked.

It was all red after that. Faramir could never remember that fight well—not the details, anyway. He could not remember where he was or the faces of the orcs he fought. He did not remember the screams of the dying men around him. All he could remember of that last, desperate fight, was the strange feel of his skin upon the handle of his sword, and the aching chasm of guilt in his heart.

He knew they hadn't a chance from the beginning. The orcs would only have been bold enough to attack as they did if they had enough troops to make it worthwhile. The fight very quickly became a rout, and the soldiers of Gondor fled before the orcs like chaff on the wind. Faramir tried to make a stand again and again, but it was not long before he was crying out for retreat. A pitiful few joined him on the horses, or what horses there were left. Some men fled on foot, but those were quickly killed. And then began the long race across the Pelennor.

In stark contrast to the battle, Faramir remembered almost every detail about that ride as long as he lived. He remembered the feeling of the horse's straining body, just as scared as he was of the fate which lay in store if they were caught. He remembered the sight of the faces of the men beside him, and he remembered glancing over and seeing Tirinion, blood pouring off his face, clinging to a horse. There was pain, somewhere, but Faramir didn't know why. And above all, the utter, overwhelming fear.

It was not the orcs Faramir feared. They had no horses and were easy enough to flee from. But they were not a hundred yards from the ruins before the sky was rent with the insufferable cry of a Nazgûl. Faramir's very flesh went cold, and it took all his remaining wits to hold himself and his horse in check. Other men's horses went mad, breaking loose from the frantic grasps of the men riding them and racing away in terror. Faramir's heart, so covered in fear and horror already, quailed at the sound and shadow the beasts cast on the men riding for their lives. But something in him would not give in. From somewhere in the deepest, strongest part of him, he found the courage to cry out, "Men of Gondor! Courage! Courage!"

At the sound of his voice, so strong and full in the terror of the moment, most of the men felt a new vigor return to them, and they found the courage for the last few terrible seconds to hold onto their steeds until the bright light of the White Wizard encompassed them and sent the Nazgûl away. Faramir remembered riding the last stretch with flagging strength, and as they rode through the gates he clung to his horse, endeavoring to sit as straight as he could. It was not until they clattered into the first level that he managed to catch some breath and fill his aching lungs. He raised his head, and saw that Tirinion was being taken down from his saddle, unconscious. It was then he noticed his own blood staining his chain mail and tunic, and, shifting in the saddle, realized that he too had been wounded. But there were more important things now. He did not know why Eru had spared him, but while he was alive there was more to do.

Gondor was not defeated yet.

Faramir guided his horse with aching arms to where Mithrandir was still sitting atop the mighty Shadowfax. Already, Faramir was ridden with guilt at how few had made it alive. He looked around helplessly as the men dismounted, many requiring help. Then he looked up into the face of Mithrandir. The wizard's eyes lit up as he looked at Faramir, and Faramir knew he was relieved to see him alive.

"So few, Mithrandir," he said hoarsely, "so few have made it alive." Faramir had felt since he was a lad that he could show Mithrandir his weakness, and Mithrandir would help. "They surprised us in the night, and we could not hold them off."

Mithrandir looked at Faramir's face and read his mind easily, etched onto his features as it was. Mithrandir had not seen Faramir for some time, and he found himself wondering at how burdened the young man looked. No doubt since his brother's death he had been forced to bear the rest of Gondor's problems on his slim shoulders. Impulsively, Mithrandir reached out a hand and laid it on Faramir's shoulder. "It is a miracle you brought any out alive, Faramir. The people of Gondor will rejoice greatly that you yourself have been spared."

Faramir bowed his head and struggled for a moment with the overwhelming grief that followed him from Osgiliath. When he looked up, his eyes were hard and clouded. "I do not know how we can hope anymore, Mithrandir," he said. "So easily have we been defeated this time—they now hold the gateway to Minus Tirith. I do not know how long we can hold them off." Faramir bowed his head again.

Mithrandir frowned, and his words seemed to him, who always had good words, useless in the face of this young man's sorrow and failure. "I do not know the fate of Gondor," he said softly, "but this I do know—Gondor has need yet of a strong captain to lead them. He _will_ lead them."

Faramir laughed softly and looked up. "He will do what he can," he said, in keeping with Mithrandir's words, "but I do not know how much that will be."

The wizard felt a strange foreboding in Faramir's words, and he longed to comfort him somehow, but again, his words ran dry. Instead, he gave Faramir's shoulder a parting squeeze. "You must see to that wound, Faramir. Take care of yourself. No doubt I will see you in counsel, soon."

Faramir nodded slowly and turned his horse toward the stables.

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Faramir shut the door behind him and pulled his tunic over his head, discarding it on the floor. It was soaked in blood and would be good for nothing but the fire now. He looked down at his stomach in the dim light proceeding from the windows and hissed in pain. The wound wasn't very deep, but it was enough to prevent a bowstring from being drawn, and a horse from being ridden without wincing. He set to binding it up with a shirt he tore into strips from his clothes press.

When he was done, he went to the basin of water in the corner and, pausing for a moment to stare into the depths, splashed the cold water over his face. He lathered his hands and arms up to the elbows with a chip of soap nearby, absently rinsing them and drying his face, chest, and arms with a towel hanging nearby. Then he sat carefully on the bed and took off his boots.

His feet were purple from the long march, the patrols on the wall, and the hard fighting and riding. He was used to long hours on his feet, but the past few days had been grueling, with almost no time to rest. He wiped his face roughly. How long had it been since he'd been able to sleep for more than an hour at a time? Two days, three maybe.

Faramir brought his hands down from his face, looking at them for the first time in weeks. He'd never looked at his hands so candidly, before, and he examined the scars and calluses almost sorrowfully. His hands were so thin, compared to the other men's, but as he stretched them in front of his eyes, he realized how strong they were. Like a strand of _mithril_, he thought suddenly. So thin, yet so strong.

From where he sat, Faramir could see himself in a mirror hung on the wall, and he gazed at himself with something akin to fear. What had he become? He touched the dark circles under his eyes, the hard lines on his brow and his eyes, the taunt muscles over his shoulders and back and arms. Where was the boy who once looked into the same mirror, not so many years ago? Faramir peered closer, looking into his own eyes. Yes, there he was…but he was hidden so deep in the stern captain that even Faramir had a hard time seeing him. Again, with sudden force, Faramir wished he could laugh. Laugh like there was no tomorrow, and no men to lead. No father to please. No darkness creeping up on him. Maybe if he laughed, the hard, worried man would go away.

He stood, unable to bear looking at the man in the mirror anymore. He crossed to the window and looked out, casting his sharp gaze at the sky, clouded as it was with black, ominous clouds that seemed to spell the fate of the human race. With a groan, he tore his eyes away from them and looked down into the city, but it was of no more comfort to him. Men scurried here and there, speaking low and furtively with each other and disappearing into houses. The women had all been sent away, with the exception of several healers, and Faramir missed the warmth and gentleness they brought to the city.

Faramir turned away from the window, and again he was greeted by the man in the mirror. "No!" he said, looking away. "I do not know you anymore!" He dropped his head into his hands and moaned in physical pain—pain that reflected everything in his heart.

He had a meeting with his father in exactly one hour, and Faramir knew he should try to sleep before it. He was so weary he could not see straight, and he crossed again to the bed. He stared at it for a long moment, contemplating whether he would be able to fall asleep or not. Then, with an almost deathly fatigue, he dropped onto the bed and slept.

When he woke, forty-five minutes later, he arose and splashed his face in water again. Rubbing his face, he limped over to the clothes press and drew out a black tunic embroidered with silver threads, forming a white tree with seven stars above it. He rubbed the fabric with his thumb for a moment, his face thoughtful, before pulling it over his head and buckling a belt around his waist. He drew his boots on next, then stood and looked into the mirror.

The sleep had done little; he felt as deadly tired as he had an hour ago. His father would be blind if he did not notice the dark circles, lines of worry, and fatigue in his step, but Faramir tried to draw himself up as much as he could, and his eyes snapped with their familiar intelligence. Ignoring the strange impulse to laugh, Faramir took one last look at himself before walking out the door slowly.

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_Notes: Da da da da! Next chapter is where it really (in my opinion) starts to get good. So review, and I shall try to post in only one week this time. Also, thanks to all those who reviewed, and to lindahoyland for the advice about my word problems:-)_


	5. A Dotard and A Traitor

_Notes: I don't know how many of you read the last chapter, because I removed the notes at the beginning and added the fourth chapter. The number of chapters stayed the same, so if you were confused and missed it, make sure you go back and read it now. _

**Chapter Five: A Dotard and a Traitor**

Faramir knew as soon as he walked through the door that the interview would not go well. Denethor sat in his chair, watching his entrance like a hawk. Faramir knew, from long experience, that the expression on his father's face brooked no disagreements, and he knew that his news would not be well accepted. The news, he realized, had already been brought to Denethor by his sheer presence, among other things. It was the explanation of the news that Denethor would find hard to agree with.

"Greetings, father," Faramir said as he limped toward him, trying to ignore the way the guards stared at him. He knelt briefly and laid his arm across his chest in respect, then rose. "You are wounded," Denethor said as his son struggled to rise.

"Just a flesh wound," Faramir murmured. "Nothing of consequence."

"Sit," Denethor said, extending a hand toward a low chair at his side. He gestured to one of the Paiges who stood nearby, beckoning him forward. "Bring food and drink for my son," he said brusquely.

Faramir, whose attention had been on his father alone, turned and saw for the first time that Mithrandir sat in the shadows, and behind his father's chair waited the last kind of person he would have expected. A Halfling, looking a startling amount like those he had set free not many days ago, looked up at him with large, brown eyes, filled with curiosity and wonder. He was clothed in the black and silver clothes of a guard—clothes, Faramir realized in a flash of remembrance, that had belonged to him long ago. So startled was Faramir that he involuntarily took a step backwards, uncharacteristically letting his emotions show.

"You have seen others like Peregrin?" came his father's voice, and Faramir's eyes met those of Mithrandir. The wizard's eyes were knowing and full of caution, and Faramir nodded slowly. "Yes," he said, seating himself heavily, despite his attempt to appear nimble. "A few days ago." Denethor did not question his son further, as the Paige brought a tray of white bread and fruit and set it on a low table beside Faramir. As Faramir hesitated, Denethor gestured toward the tray impatiently. "Eat," he said gruffly.

Faramir's appetite, which had been so depleted recently, suddenly returned with vigor, and he ate much of the light food beside him. Neither his father nor Mithrandir talked while he ate, but he caught frequent stares from the hobbit behind Denethor's chair. The little man's eyes seemed to be clouded with what looked to Faramir like pity mixed with a good deal of awe, and Faramir was not sure whether to be annoyed or amused. He spared little thought on the hobbit, though, for his mind was fixed on the things he must say to his father.

When he was done eating, he began his report on what had happened, beginning with the removal of most of his rangers from Ithilien to Osgiliath. He spoke of his plans for attack, which had been so suddenly and disastrously brought to an end with the surprise attack of the orcs and the men of Gondor's brave stand. He spoke with an irrepressible shudder of the flight across the Pelennor under the shadow, and then his voice ended, and the silence that filled the room beat down on him. He had long been able to read the thoughts of men; he had even longer been unable to read his father's thoughts. As the minutes passed and his father sat drenched in silence, he grew uneasy and raised troubled eyes to Mithrandir.

The wizard had sat, unspeaking, for the duration of Faramir's report, and at times even appeared to be asleep, but Faramir knew him well enough to know he was not. Now Mithrandir's eyes looked at him, full of caution and encouragement, and Faramir knew that he was pleading with him not to say too much. Faramir would heed the wizard's warning, for he knew that his father was a demanding ruler, but some things would have to come out nonetheless.

It was with little surprise, then, that Faramir watched Denethor raise his eyes to his son's and say, "You have shown surprise upon seeing the Halfling in my service; you have seen others like him. It was not in the days of your youth, or when you traveled to other lands. What has passed between you and Peregrin's people?"

Faramir cast another look at Mithrandir, and despite the heightened look of warning, Faramir knew he had to tell his father the truth. "I took two hobbits into my care two days ago, in the wilds of Ithilien. They were traveling across the land towards Mordor; with them was a third companion, a gangling creature that boded, I must say, no good. I brought them to our hide-out and questioned them."

Denethor sat forward in his chair, his hands gripping the arms. "And what did you find? Speak plainly."

Faramir ducked his head, looking up to meet Mithrandir's eyes once more. "They…" he hesitated as he looked back at his father, "they carried with them a powerful weapon—one which could destroy the one who claimed it. I must say I was surprised at the hobbits' strength, in the face of such power. I—I let them go their way."

Denethor breath came in a gasp; Faramir's eyes flew to Mithrandir's. The wizard seemed to sense the helplessness the young man felt and his eyes held encouragement this time. Faramir was grateful they held no reproach. His father, however, turned blazing eyes on him.

"You would sit here and report to me that you let them go? That you, a captain supposedly with Gondor's interests first in your heart and head have let our greatest weapon, and perhaps only hope slip between your fingers? Did I not know your own interests, I would label you a fool, Faramir."

Faramir stung under his father's words, but he continued to look levelly at him. "Father," he began, "I did not—"

"Do not defend yourself to me, Faramir. I know the desires of your heart. By turning free the Halflings, you desired to show yourself high and puissant—beyond the reach of ordinary desires and wishes of men. And do not think I have not noticed your frequent glances to the wizard; I am no dotard, Faramir, at least not yet. No doubt it is his counsel that has convinced you that this weapon would be too much for one man, or even a score to wield; ever you styled yourself as his pupil." Denethor paused for a moment, fixing his son in his cold, unforgiving glare. "You have chosen a side, my son. But in your folly and search for renown, you have chosen the side that will ruin us all."

The silence in the room was unbearable. Pippin, standing behind Denethor's chair, looked from Faramir to his father to Mithrandir in confusion and horror. Could it be that the young captain had really ruined them by sending Frodo and Sam off to fulfill their mission? Mithrandir's eyes were shut tightly—Pippin would get no tale from him. But Pippin trusted Mithrandir more than he trusted this Lord Steward. And the young man had an honest look about him; Pippin had liked him from the first glimpse he had of him.

The tension in the room heightened as the seconds ticked by. Faramir's head was bowed, and there was no emotion coming from him except where his hand, hanging down on the side of the chair where his father could not see, was balled tightly into a fist. Mithrandir's eyes were still shut, and other than the frown on his lips, he looked peaceful. Denethor stared coldly at his son. Only Pippin moved, shifting uncomfortably in the silence, wishing to say something, but knowing enough to keep his silence. Finally, Faramir spoke.

"I can speak for myself only," he began, and his voice was soft and flayed, as if he had been struck. "and even of that I cannot say that I know what I did was right. But I have always followed what I knew as truth, and have trusted the instincts and foresight that have been forced to become mine. I do not know if mine was the right decision, for I have not the power to see into the future and judge which actions were good and which misguided. I know simply that I chose what seemed to me to be the right path. Gondor is not weak, father. Yes, Gondor has great strength in her yet. But I will not risk the ruin of everything Gondor has left for power that would only corrupt. You cannot ask me to go against my heart or my judgment, father. If what I am is not sufficient for the will of Gondor, then Gondor must not follow me. I have done what I thought best, and no more."

The young man's eyes stared levelly into Denethor's, in a quiet challenge. His voice, which had started his speech so vulnerably, had ended it with such a note of strength and dignity, that the room seemed to shake with the quiet force of his words. In his chair Mithrandir opened his eyes, and a smile turned the corners of his mouth up, ever so slightly.

Denethor stared back at his son. "You cannot excuse yourself to me, Faramir."

"I will not beg forgiveness for my actions," Faramir said, his once more quiet voice at odds with his forceful words. "I can only accept the consequences."

Even Denethor seemed surprised for a moment, and he glanced away; his mood returned momentarily. "Alas that Gondor has lost him who led her so nobly!"

"Alas," Faramir said, looking down suddenly, "for Boromir, my brother, whom I too loved." The room once more fell silent, until Faramir looked at his father again. "You wish, now," he began, and his voice was one of a man who has thought long about his words but only just found the courage or reason to say them, "that our places had been exchanged. That I had died and Boromir had lived."

It was not a question, but Denethor found reason to answer nonetheless. "Aye, I wish that."

It took Faramir an age to rise to his feet from the low chair, but when he did he did not flinch from his father's look. For a moment Faramir seemed to be searching for something—mercy, perhaps, or some glimmer of love—but the gray depths of Denethor's eyes held nothing but cold, calculated disdain. "Since you are robbed of Boromir," Faramir said in a voice that seemed too loud, "I will do what I can in his stead."

The bow took even more effort than the rise from the chair, but when he had done it, Faramir began limping toward the door. The wound, which he had forgotten about while he was seated, ached now, but he would not let it cross his mind. Nothing but battle strategy and troops would cross his mind now.

There was nothing else left to him.

* * *

Pippin scurried across the sunlit courtyard, his mind filled with thoughts and half-felt feelings. Above the chaos of his mind, one emotion stuck out vividly above the others—a feeling of utter helplessness. What could he, a hobbit who caused more trouble than good, do to help such a great, shining city and such great, powerful men? Yet the sense that these men needed help more than anyone imagined was so powerful that he could not shake the urge to do _something_. 

Yet why should he even care? He barely knew this young captain; the man had not even been in the city two full days, and already he was feeling obligation toward him. The man could take care of himself, anyway—a man like that was born ready to take care of himself. But Pippin's heart told him otherwise, and the more he thought of the captain's situation, the more he was saddened by it. To be so unfeeling towards ones own son! It was beyond Pippin's comprehension. The interview yesterday had been bad enough, but the orders today—those were simply unthinkable. Yet what was the captain to do? He had to obey orders, and Pippin could tell by looking in the young man's eyes that he had accepted his fate.

Why can't _you_ accept it? His mind asked him. What have you to do with this man anyway? But his heart continued to tell him that there was more of the story to unfold, and that this man was worth more than he was being treated as.

As he crossed the courtyard, lost in his own thoughts, he almost missed seeing the solitary figure that stood at the wall, looking out over the city. Almost, but not quite. Pippin stopped, staring at the tall man, and instantly recognized him from the way he bore his shoulders and head. It was the captain Faramir, though what he was doing was beyond Pippin. He seemed to simply be standing there, looking. Pippin immediately turned to keep going, but again that little voice told him that there were things this man was hiding—things that no man should have to bear alone. Pippin's steps turned toward the figure.

"Greeting, master hobbit," Faramir said, turning to meet Pippin. "Do you also seek the warmth of the afternoon sun?"

Pippin was at first astonished by how genial the man looked, and how pleased he seemed to be to see him. For a second he wondered if he had misjudged this man, and whether what he thought of him was wrong. But then Pippin looked into his eyes, and he saw what the man could not hide, not even with the best acting—pain. For a split-second Pippin had the impression that this man was so filled with pain—hidden pain—that it was finally spilling out and showing itself, though he was trying hard not to show it.

"Yes," Pippin said, with a smile of his own, "it's nice, isn't it? I mean, with so much shadow and all these days, it's nice to see the sun shining."

Faramir nodded and turned back toward the city. "It seems the sun would shine on the days it feels the inhabitants of earth most need it. All seems so dark and hopeless, yet still there comes a glimmer to our hearts that we do not ask for."

"Do you see hope for us?" asked Pippin, looking up at the young man. Faramir was silent for a long time.

"My mind tells me that there is no hope for mankind—that the forces of evil in this world are too great, with too much power. Yet my heart—" he broke off sharply and laughed. His laughter had a hollow sound. "But why should we listen to our hearts, which so often speak nonsense?"

Pippin noticed the way Faramir's hands clutched the edge of the wall, as if he was clinging to something unseen, hoping to keep something that was slipping from his grasp. Yet his face was so void of emotion that Pippin almost felt fear. Suddenly, the sense of helplessness returned—after all, what could he possibly do to help this man? "I'm sure if anyone can do something great out there, you can," he finally said, but his words sounded empty in the sunlit air, so he tried a different approach. "Your brother was a great man," he blurted out, and immediately regretted it.

Yet instead of turning angry or even sad eyes on him, Faramir simply turned to look at him steadily, with a softer expression in his eyes. For a moment he studied the hobbit, and then said, "You cannot fix the whole world, master Peregrin. Though it is valiant to try."

Pippin bowed his head. "I must try," he said. "There is so little I can do, and so much that my friends can, that I have to try to help someone."

Suddenly the captain stooped down to his knees and laid a hand on Pippin's shoulder. The hobbit looked up into gray-green eyes that were suddenly filled with emotions, each vying to be foremost. "Perhaps the world needs to be reminded that there is still untouched good left in it," Faramir said with a voice steeped in regret and acceptance. "Perhaps men need to know that hope and light is not gone completely, and never will be. That is your mission, Peregrin. And I for one think that you will succeed in that endeavor." He smiled at Pippin, and the hobbit was astonished to see the way his entire face changed with that genuine smile; his face seemed to lose ten years of worry, and his eyes danced. Pippin had a sudden, odd thought that he had never really known what it was like for eyes to dance until now, as he looked at this man's eyes—this man who had no reason to smile, and yet smiled nonetheless. And Pippin's heart rose in the face of Faramir's joy, and in the thought that he had done some small thing to help him.

"It seems that is all I _can_ do," Pippin smiled, "I'm not a very good soldier." He looked down at the ill-fitting uniform and smiled sheepishly. "I didn't think they would find any livery that would fit me."

Faramir's glance fell to the uniform too, and his gaze turned thoughtful, though no less light of heart. "It once belonged to a young boy of the city. A very foolish one who wasted many hours slaying dragons instead of attending to his studies," he said softly.

"This was yours?" Pippin asked, his eyes widening.

"Yes, it was mine," Faramir smiled. "My father had it made for me."

Pippin grinned. "Well, I'm taller than you were then. Though I'm not likely to grow anymore, except sideways." He chuckled, and Faramir smiled.

"It never fitted me either. Boromir was always the soldier. They were so alike, he and my father. Proud. Stubborn even. But strong." Faramir's voice was no longer wistful, but filled with a determined, calculated edge.

Pippin hesitated for an instant, but knew what he was about to say would make a great deal of difference to the man in front of him. "I think you have strength—of a different kind. And one day your father will see it."

Faramir gazed at the hobbit for a long time, and then finally got to his feet. "Thank you, master Peregrin. I think you have shown me what I was looking for."

Pippin raised his eyebrows. "What is that?"

"Why." Faramir said the single word with a slight smile and turned toward the hobbit once more. "That is what I was looking for. And I have found it." At Pippin's confused look Faramir looked back out over the city and waved a hand toward it. "Why they are worth it. Why this world is worth it." He looked back at Pippin, and this time the hobbit could see the grief in his eyes. "You have never ridden to battle, Peregrin, but you must understand that a man needs a reason to fight. A reason to go willingly into battle and possible death. It can be as slight a thing as an order from a commander he trusts, but there must be some reason. I have found mine in the reminder that—that there is more to this world than we can immediately reach out and touch."

Pippin at once felt an overwhelming sadness, but the thought that he had helped this man in any way made his heart grateful. "There is always someone who cares about someone," he blurted out, and then turned and fled across the courtyard. Faramir watched him go with a smile hovering about his mouth, then turned and looked out past the city, past the grassy plains of the Pelennor, to the twinkling lights in Osgiliath.

His shoulders stooped once again.

* * *

_Notes: You'll notice that I kept the entire conversation between Pippin and Faramir from_ The Return of the King_, the movie. That's because I like it so much! It fit perfectly into this little scene, here._

_Up next--Imrahil and Faramir on the battlefield..._


	6. Desperation

_Notes: If my dates and times are completely off, please forgive me. I was too lazy to go look them up in the book, so instead I relied soley upon my faulty memory. _

_I decided to not wait until Thursday and to post right now. Enjoy, and don't forget to review so I know what you're opinions on the story are. I need to know before I subject you to the rest!_

* * *

**Chapter Six: Desperation**

It was getting even darker as Imrahil looked around the battlefield. It was always dark, now, especially over here, but the darkness was increasing. He stopped himself from wondering what was making it darker—it would do no earthly good to think about it. He couldn't do anything about it anyway.

"My lord!" came the voice of Cefron, his lieutenant, and the man sounded desperate, "they are closing in! We must retreat!" Imrahil turned to see the man standing with two horses, staring at him wildly. He looked to be just on the verge of fleeing. Imrahil hesitated, his head aching with the weight of the decision. "The men are already retreating?" he asked sharply. Cefron nodded. Imrahil cast his glance around the battlefield. "And none have seen him. None, correct?"

The lieutenant wiped his face with his free hand; one of the horses stamped nervously. "No, my lord. No one can find him."

Imrahil groaned and lowered his head. This was what he had been so terrified of. His nephew had been keeping the orcs off for a night and a day now, and when Imrahil's own troops had arrived he had seen how few men were left. The soldiers of Gondor had needed help, then, more than ever, and Imrahil had been prepared to give it. But he had not been prepared to see neither hide nor hair of his nephew.

When he had arrived in the city, hours after Faramir had led his men forth, he had wasted no time at all in turning his men around and leading them out to reinforce the men of Gondor. The interview had not gone well with Denethor. Short, terse words were exchanged, and then Imrahil had practically run out to rally his men to his nephew's aid. As far as Imrahil was concerned, it was pure madness and folly to have sent Faramir out, and it was a miracle that any of the men had survived this far. It bears tribute to my nephew's strategic skills, Imrahil thought grimly.

The men of Dol Amroth had done little. Now, as the orcs bore steadily closer and broke through the defenses, Imrahil was being forced to flee back to the city. Most of the men of Gondor had fled first, leaving Imrahil's men to hold the orcs off until they could escape. And still there was no sign of Faramir, captain of Gondor.

Imrahil let out a long, anguished yell that began to echo in the foul air and then simply died. He had gotten no clear coordinates from any of the men under Faramir's command. One, a young man with a bleeding arm, had shaken his head wildly and said, "He was at the front lines, my lord. That is where I saw him last." Only one other man was either lucid enough or could remember enough to tell him that the last place he had seen Faramir was when the young captain had pulled him out of the way of an arrow and shoved him against a wall. That was it.

Imrahil felt the seconds ticking—could almost taste the haste that was pressing down upon him. He needed to go, go now. But the thought of his nephew lying somewhere under the carnage, perhaps still alive, bore down on him. He could not leave; he would never be able to forgive himself if he could do something and didn't. And he wouldn't know until he found him. "Eru, please," he pleaded out loud, though no one could hear him above the din of battle. "_Help_ me! Help _him_!"

"My lord!" Cefron called again, the strain showing through his voice. "We must _go_!"

"Go if you must," Imrahil yelled, turning his back on the man and walking away. "I stay until I find my nephew. He's alive," he said under his breath. "I know he is."

Behind him Cefron wiped his face again and cast a wild glance around. With a ferocious curse, he pulled the horses' harnesses and began picking his way along the field behind his lord. Ahead, Imrahil wiped sweat out of his eyes and continued the search. It grew louder and hotter, as if the approaching darkness was bringing with it all the fire and tumult of Hell itself. Imrahil was forced to go painfully slow, turning over bodies where they lay one on top of another to make sure his nephew was not beneath. He began to despair.

"My Lord Imrahil!" Cefron's voice sounded faint to Imrahil, but he turned wearily as the lieutenant gestured to a pair of men to Imrahil's left. "Is that not the black and silver uniform of a superior commander of the White Tower?"

Imrahil's hopes rose before he could suppress them. His aching legs pumped as he hurdled several bodies and ran to the place Cefron pointed to, dropping to his knees and pulling the carcass of another Gondorian soldier off of…Faramir.

Had he not been in such a dire circumstance, Imrahil might have wept at that moment. Faramir lay twisted on the ground, one hand stretched out and still grasping his sword, and the other flung over his forehead, in a strange attitude of despair. It was as if Faramir, in his anguish upon seeing the battle being lost, had felt shame even as he was struck down. "Oh Eru, say he is not…" he trailed off as he laid a hand on his nephew's face and felt that it was still warm and alive. Now the tears did come, but he blinked them away fiercely and turned to face Cefron. "He is alive!" he said triumphantly. "Quick, we must see what we can do and bring him back with us." He turned toward his nephew and pulled the battered, stained weaponry and refuse from around him. The black shaft protruding from Faramir's shoulder was suddenly evident to Imrahil; his frown deepened.

"He's been struck by a missile—looks to be one that the Haradrim use," Imrahil said shortly as Cefron knelt next to him. "I'm going to take it out—tear something so I can bind it." Cefron nodded, though Imrahil took no notice. He drew his knife and laid a hand on Faramir's bloody chest. With a deep breath, he slipped the knife into Faramir shirt and cut it away from the shaft of the arrow. Around the trio the air was growing steadily darker, but neither man paid attention now as they bent over the still form of Faramir.

The skin around the wound was slick with blood, dirt that had managed to find a way under his uniform, and black with bruises. Imrahil's breath let out in a sigh as he saw that the arrow had penetrated the skin just underneath the collarbone, avoiding shattering his shoulder by fractions of an inch. He will heal, he thought. He will heal if I can just get him back soon enough.

Suddenly, the young man's face moved, contorting into a rasping cough. Imrahil's glance moved from Faramir's chest to his face, and to his surprise, the older man saw that Faramir's eyes were open. They seemed to be staring up at the sky—studying it, as if his life was linked to the fate of what he saw there. For a moment his face was almost peaceful, and then his breath came out swiftly and he began to gasp—deep, short gasps that echoed strangely in the din of the battlefield. His eyes began to roll to the right and the left, swiftly, as if he was searching for something, or someone.

"Faramir!" Imrahil said gently, putting his other hand on his nephew's shoulder. Faramir did not respond, and his breathing grew more labored. His left hand, still gloved, suddenly shot up and grabbed Cefron's throat—the lieutenant knelt close by—in a surprisingly strong grip. Cefron gasped in surprise, clutched at Faramir's hand, and looked wildly at Imrahil.

Imrahil bent closer to his injured nephew. "Faramir," he tried again, gently but firmly. "It is I, Imrahil…your uncle. You are in safe hands, Faramir." Imrahil touched the arm that held Cefron by the throat and asserted gentle pressure on it. "You are safe, Faramir. I am here. It's you uncle, and I'm going to help you. Faramir, can you hear me?" Imrahil watched as Faramir's eyes turned toward him and focused slowly. Imrahil suddenly noticed how thin Faramir's face was. There was a cut just beneath his eye, and it stood out starkly against his pale, sweaty skin.

Faramir swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing painfully in his dry throat. "Uncle?" he asked, his voice a mere whisper. Imrahil nodded and moved his hand from Faramir's arm to his face. "I'm here, Fama," he said softly. "Now let go of my lieutenant, and we'll help you."

Faramir's arm fell to his side and his eyes shut heavily. Cefron gasped a few times and felt at his throat; the lieutenant looked at Imrahil and shook his head. Imrahil turned back to Faramir. Now that Imrahil was touching Faramir's face, he realized that his nephew was feverish. The dart must have been poisoned, he thought. I have to work fast. "Faramir," he said, leaning close to his nephew, "I have to remove the arrow before I take you back with me. I have to do it now."

Faramir's mouth opened, but his eyes remained shut. "I never thought it would…hurt so much," he whispered. His body went completely limp, and Imrahil blinked harshly to stop the tears in his eyes. "Come on," he said gruffly, "let's get it over with before he regains consciousness."

Cefron handed him a dagger and a wad of cloth. "Here are more bandages to wrap it with," he said, gesturing to the pile in his lap. For a moment Imrahil and Cefron's eyes met, and Imrahil felt a rush of gratitude toward the younger man. "Thank you for staying with me," Imrahil said. Cefron merely nodded.

Faramir didn't scream as the arrow came out, but a gasping moan escaped his lips, and Imrahil looked up at his face to see his eyes open and stare unseeingly at the sky. His body began to shake in small, fierce shivers. Imrahil wrapped the wound quickly, then took off his cloak and wrapped it around Faramir's body. "Let's go," Imrahil said shortly. Cefron took Faramir's feet, and Imrahil took his nephew's body. "Gently," he said, yet despite their efforts, putting Faramir on the horse's back was not easy. Cefron held the reigns as Imrahil climbed up behind Faramir, and then both men began picking their way across the field. The last of the troops were withdrawing, fleeing toward the city. Imrahil and Cefron joined the tail end of the line, and the White City shone like a beacon of safety in comparison to the stench of the battlefield they were fast leaving behind.

As they reached the edge of the outpost, Imrahil turned his horse for an instant to look back at the desolation. His mind dwelt ever so swiftly on what Osgiliath once was, but he pushed the thoughts out of his head in his urgency to hurry Faramir to a healer's care. Yet as he turned to rejoin the retreat, he heard his nephew's rasping voice in front of him.

"Is it a rout?" Faramir's head lay against Imrahil's shoulder, and Imrahil looked down into Faramir's sharp gray eyes, surprisingly clear and alert. Imrahil's arms about Faramir tightened and he shook his head.

"No, Fama. It's not a rout. You held them off longer than anyone could have hoped for," he said, and he watched his nephew's eyes turn to look at the scene of battle before them. "Tell him I'm sorry," Faramir said. For a moment his grip tightened on Imrahil's arm, and then his eyes clouded over. "They're calling me," he said hoarsely. "I must return…" And with a moan, he succumbed to the world of shadows once more.

Imrahil found himself blinded by tears; he shook his head fiercely and uttered a harsh oath against Denethor. "What I will do to you, Denethor, Steward of Gondor," he bit out as he began galloping across the Pelennor, "when I get my hands on you will go down in the annals of Gondor. I swear I will make you pay for this."

* * *

Damla had never felt so completely bereft of any joy before in her life. The men of Gondor were falling by the moment, and the wounded in the Houses of Healing were piling up outside the door. Men—wounded men—were everywhere. They crowded the halls and were sprawled over the beds. They were sitting and lying in every niche of the rooms, and they were lined up outside the doors. Damla felt their moaning weigh on her very soul. She was grateful now, though she had not been before, that her husband had been wounded in one of the first attacks and was happily drugged and recovering. Her sons were safe for the moment, for they had gone to the countryside with their aunt and uncle until, and if ever, they could meet again.

But her heart felt like a lump in her shoes, being tread on more and more as the hours passed by. The men that had gone out were slowly trickling into the city, and Faramir had still not returned. Damla was not surprised. She knew Faramir, and he was not one to retreat first. If there were any of his men still on the field fighting, he would be fighting with them. She sighed inwardly as she scurried about the halls, binding and sewing and cleaning and bathing. If only she could be as sure that Faramir was safe as she was that her husband and children were safe!

Damla had not seen Faramir before he had marched out. She couldn't help thinking it had been on purpose; though she didn't like to think so, she knew that Faramir had striven to leave with as few goodbyes as possible. He had no doubt thought it easier that way—as if he had had a premonition that he might not be returning. Damla knew his goodbye to his father had been very painful, for already rumors of their conversation flew thick about the city, and if any rumors were to be heard, they could be heard in the Houses of Healing. Damla tried to shut her ears to the horrible rumors, for she knew that they held more truth than she could bear. Faramir and Denethor's relationship had never been easy, and at the last it had been broken past repair. Yet Damla, in her ever optimistic nature, was hopeful that things could still be patched up between the father and son, in the days of peace that might come, if the war was won. Damla had always been hopeful that peace was left in Middle Earth, but as the sky darkened and the troops of Mordor advanced, Damla's courage and optimism were spreading thin.

She was passing by an upper window, late in the day, when she saw a horse bearing two men coming up the streets, and as it passed the people cried out and called to one of the men. Damla knew immediately that he would not respond, and she dropped the linens she carried and flew through the corridors, down the steps, and onto the street. The horse stopped just as her skirts settled once more about her feet. "Faramir!" she cried, looking up at the still form of the young man. "Oh Fama, what has he done?" Her unconscious words startled even her, and she put her hand over her mouth. Imrahil of Dol Amroth, Faramir's uncle and the one who bore Faramir before him, glanced at her as he dismounted. Recognition showed almost at once, and he pulled her to him briskly. "You are Damla, are you not?" he asked. Damla was surprised that Imrahil would remember her, but she nodded.

"I am," she said. Her eyes involuntarily filled with tears, but she wiped them away angrily. "He was on the field?" she asked tilting her chin bravely. Imrahil nodded.

"He was struck with a Southron arrow," he said. He suddenly grabbed her arm and looked into her dark eyes intently. "He needs medicine. Can I trust you to watch over him? I need not tell you what my nephew's well-being means to me, and to his family, to say nothing of Gondor and her people."

Damla sniffed and glanced at Faramir, still slumped over the horse's back. "You can count on me, my Lord Imrahil. Faramir and I have been as brother and sister since we were small. Believe me, no one would grieve with more sorrow than I, should the wound prove fatal." Her eyes moved back to Imrahil's face, and Imrahil felt a sudden rush of trust and warmth toward this Gondorian girl.

"Thank you," he said with sudden weariness. Then, snagging a healer to help as he rushed past, Imrahil lifted Faramir from the horse and, under Damla's direction, carried him into the house and to a room filled with other wounded men. "We shall find him better quarters when we can," Damla said hastily as they set Faramir down on the bed. "The important thing now is to wash and bind his wound so that fever doesn't set in."

"I fear we are too late," Imrahil said. Damla took another look at Faramir and saw that his uncle was right. Faramir's skin was beaded with sweat, his hair stuck to his forehead, and his hands moved restlessly on the bed. His breathing was growing shallower, with each breath seeming more and more of a chore. Damla felt a tiny knot of despair in her stomach, but she crushed it with silent resolve.

"Kitha," she called, "bring hot water and fresh bandages. I will need a fresh tunic as well, and some herbs. Hurry!" As Imrahil watched, she set to work gently cutting Faramir's clothing away and smoothing the hair from his wet brow.

"Should not someone be sent to tell the Lord Steward?"

Damla and Imrahil froze at the voice of Kitha, and they turned toward the girl. Imrahil's brow knit, but Damla shook her head. "It is his right," she whispered. With a glance at Faramir and at Imrahil, she nodded to the girl. "Send a messenger to inform the Steward that his son has returned," she said, and there was a strange note of hurt in her voice that Imrahil could only wonder at. "And do not neglect to tell him of Lord Faramir's condition."

Kitha nodded and bowed out of the room.

* * *

_Up next: Denethor comes, Faramir wanders, and Damla does something very brave and foolish._


	7. Lost

_Notes: Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews...every time I get one I am reminded why I post. :-) Hopefully this story will just keep on building and building, and you'll never get tired of Faramir and his troubles, but we'll see how long we last. Just warning you, the story is going on 80,000 words now, so if you want to jump ship do so now! I realized my story is quite disproportionate in the amount of time I spend in the Houses of Healing and the amount of time I spend before the Houses, but I justify it by the fact that I personally would rather read about Faramir and Eowyn than about any other two people. Who wouldn't?_

_This may bore you, so feel free to skip to the story at this point if you want, but I thought I'd share with you all something that I thought was quite exciting. (And you're really the only people on earth who would understand.) I was writing a part about Faramir just the other day, and I must admit it's probably the most angsty part yet (don't worry--it's not for quite some time), and I realized as I wrote that I was getting very depressed. Why, I had no idea, until I stopped and took a shower, and as I stepped out and began towling off, I realized that (as I was only then beginning to feel better) I was feeling the emotions of my character. I hated writing that part, because Faramir hated going through that. It was incredible! If you've never experienced it, you'll think that was the stupidest thing ever, but it was quite exhilirating, actually. I'd never felt that way before--like I **was** Faramir. _

_So anyway, onward and upward. Enjoy Imrahil, Damla, and of course Faramir._

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Lost**

Damla never forgot how white Faramir looked against the sheets, nor how his eyes moved so quickly beneath closed eyelids. The sight of his half-opened mouth and shallow breathing, his twitching hands, and his sweat-soaked face remained burned into her mind until the day she died. Neither did she ever forget the feeling of despair as she saw her best efforts useless in the face of this horrible fever and wound.

The wound itself should not cause the fever, she told herself for the hundredth time. Why, _why_ is his fever so bad? The arrow might indeed have been poisoned, but still it would not cause the ceaseless wandering that Faramir was enduring. Damla glanced out the window and shuddered at the sight of the ever-approaching darkness. That must be it—the arrow had come from the shadow and fear above.

Damla turned back to the bed and touched Faramir's hand gently. He jerked slightly, but his response was minimal. As the seconds passed he seemed to be slipping more and more into the world of shadow, away from the waking world. Imrahil had told her that Faramir had been conscious on the battlefield, and for a short time on the way back, but since he had arrived in the Houses he had not opened his eyes once, not even when she had dressed his wound. Now he lay, seeming so peaceful, but Damla knew his mind, which was so active in this world, was in even more agony in the world he walked in now.

"Oh Fama," she whispered, seating herself on the white sheets and touching his bandaged shoulder with a healer's care. "Has it really come to this?" Her mind refused to let her believe that this was the end, but deep in her heart she knew that all of this had been caused from some deep, inexplicable misunderstanding. Yet she simply could not wrap her mind around the fact that Denethor had truly wanted _this_. She bent closer to Faramir and touched his silent face. "Can you hear me, Fama? Please, if you love your people, and if you love me, please come back to us! I can heal your body, but I can do nothing for your mind, nor this darkness consuming you." Her voice broke as she finished, and she bent her head. "Perhaps that is not enough," she said slowly, watching a tear fall onto Faramir's cheek. How strange, she thought, that my tears should make him look so alive. And still I can do nothing.

There was a sudden, loud knock on the door, and Damla sprang up, wiping tears from her eyes. Her sorrow was soon gone, however, and replaced with a chill anger, for through the doors walked the Steward of Gondor, accompanied by four citadel guards. Damla was at once struck by the look in Denethor's eyes—it was sad, naturally, but there was something not quite right about the way his glance fell on the bed where his son lay. A sudden, deep mistrust came into Damla's mind.

"My Lord," she said softly, touching her forehead in respect. "You have come to see your son." She moved closer to the bed, setting herself between Faramir and his father.

"Faramir!" Denethor's voice was strangled in his throat, and he brushed past Damla to the bedside. He reached out a hand to touch his son, but it remained in the air, shaking visibly. "My son…" he murmured brokenly, "My son…"

Damla stared with wide eyes at the Steward, for she had never seen him so visibly shaken. She had the acute feeling that the Steward's very emotions were crumbling as he looked at the tortured state of his son. Denethor looked around wildly, then wiped his face with his hand. "How did this happen?" he asked hoarsely.

"How does you lordship suspect it happened?" Damla found herself saying, though never before had she been so bold and plainspoken. "He was wounded while out fighting to regain what was impossible to regain; he was struck down by a dart from a Nazgûl, no doubt, for else his fever and wandering cannot be explained."

Denethor turned with such force that Damla stepped back, realizing at once that no matter how different Denethor appeared, a part of his cold, calculated fierceness was still intact. His eyes narrowed and he searched Damla's face. Damla did not flinch. All her emotions were displayed on her face, for she had never been one to hide her feelings, but no emotion was more prevalent than her anger. Denethor saw it, and his eyes narrowed even more. Without turning away from her, he gestured to the men he had brought with him. "Take up the bier he lies upon," he said in a loud voice. "We will move him to my chambers."

Damla's eyes grew wide. With a cry of alarm, she sprang to move between the four guards and Faramir, lying still and pale on the bed. "Never!" she said. "He is ill, my lord!" Denethor turned away from her and walked to the window.

"Ignore her," he said. "She defies the Steward, and she defies her country."

"No!" Damla's cry was wrenched from her breast, all the emotions of helplessness and fear combining to convince her that now, finally, she could do something to help Faramir. "If he is ever to recover, my Lord, it will be here, under the care of healers and medicine. If you take him from this room his chances of survival diminish almost completely!" She gasped for breath and stared at the guards. "Stay if you wish, my Lord. Talk to your son and sit by him. But leave him here—for God's sake leave him in the hands of healers!"

Denethor turned with blazing eyes upon the brunette. He stood over six feet tall, and she was barely five feet, but as the guards looked at them, she seemed almost as tall as he, with her chin tilted up in defiance and anger. Denethor took a step towards her and his face turned to stone. "I will do what I wish," he said in a quiet, deadly voice. "He is my son, and you are a girl of no consequence. Who are you to defy me, the Steward of Gondor?"

"I am one who loves your son, as you must not," she said just as adamantly as he, and her heart grew brave. "I am one who cares about the man he was, and is, and not just the fact that the line of Stewards may very well end here. I stand here, next to your son who is slowly dying, perhaps, with the courage to say what needs to be said only because it has come to this at last. My deepest regret is that I did not have the courage to say this to you when it mattered, and when Faramir's life might have been spared. I say you cannot take your son, not now, not ever. You are the Steward, yes, but you are not worthy of your son now. Nor were you _ever_ worthy!"

Damla's courageous and foolhardy words rang in the quiet room. She knew as her words died that nothing she could say would make the Steward change his mind—not with that look in his eyes. But she knew that someone had to say something, and if she did not try to save Faramir now, no one would. For a second the Steward and the girl stared at each other, and then Denethor stepped forward and slapped her across the face, hard. Damla's head snapped sideways and she reeled backward, clutching her face. As Denethor shoved past her, his shoulder threw her off balance and she fell against the bed; her head made a sickening thud as it hit the corner of the wooden frame, and she crumpled onto the ground, senseless.

There was silence in the room. On the bed, Faramir's breathing suddenly hitched and he gasped deeply; he soon subsided back into shallow breaths. Denethor stepped over Damla's still form and looked at his guards. "Take up the bier," he said in a emotionless voice. "We will bear my son to my chambers."

* * *

If another lash fell on his shoulders, Faramir would die. He knew he deserved the beating, but he had not thought his commanding officer had wanted _this many lashes_. His back was covered in blood, his head was covered in blood, his legs were covered in blood. In fact, everything he saw was covered in blood, right down to the sprig of blue flowers nodding at his feet. And the pain! He could no longer even feel his limbs for the fiery pain shooting through him.

Why does the last lash not come? Faramir thought through the haze of memories and flash-backs scattered across his brain. Why can't I die? What does he wait for?

When his sentence had been pronounced Faramir had thought that he could not have heard correctly. But the closer the time of the actual flogging came, the more he realized that he deserved death. He had, after all, committed open treason. He had let the prisoners go free, and now doom was upon them. He had practically sentenced his own men to death with his miserable strategies and battle plans, and he had openly rebelled against the Steward's authority. This punishment was just, alright.

But if only it would come! He waited, his breathing shallow and painful, for the final blow that would end it all—the lash that would send him reeling out of this world and into the next, freeing him from the pain and agony both emotionally and physically.

It did not come.

Suddenly, his shoulder began to throb, and he put a hand up to it. It came down sticky with blood, and he remembered the arrow. He had been struck down on the battlefield while fighting with his men, and his uncle had taken him back to the city. Was he in the city now? He moved his head to look about and the whipping post and blood melted away, replaced with a gray-black mist. Faramir could not find his way out of the mist, and he could feel absolutely no body. His mind, he realized with a jolt, must be completely removed from his body, wandering in this…this deadly place.

"Stop!" he cried out. "I must return! Gondor needs me, and I am not ready yet to give up my life!" He searched the darkness, trying with all his will power to make out a shape or pattern. "I was wrong," he whispered.

He felt himself falling, reeling into another delusion. He fought it, just as he knew his body must be fighting the fever raging in him, but the darkness was winning, and slowly, he returned to the world that seemed so real, but was so fake.

This time he was watching a young woman crying, and he thought it would break his heart to hear her sobs. She was thin and pale, but beautiful, with slender wrists and fingers clutching a soiled handkerchief. Her long hair, which had no doubt been bound atop her head earlier, tumbled down about her shoulders in a half-braid, and as Faramir looked closer, he realized that the girl was sitting in a bedroom, on a bed, and at her feet lay shards of glass. Faramir wondered if it was a simple bowl or vessel that had been broken, or if she was crying because the item that had fallen had been precious to her.

Suddenly, as if from a long way off, Faramir heard her voice coming to him, first in a long, thin wail, and then in intelligible words and sentences. She was speaking as if to someone, though as far as Faramir could tell she was the only one in the room. "Stop it!" she sobbed, "stop telling me these things! How is it possible? Oh, oh for my lost love! Who will be the husband of my heart now, and who will raise our children? All is lost, all is lost, all is lost, lost, lost…"

Faramir tried to stretch out his hand to comfort the woman, but his arm would not move. Instead, he began to speak. "Who is gone? Who is lost? Pray, tell me so that I might help you find him!"

She sobbed all the louder, shaking her head in her hands. "No!" she screamed, "No one can help now. Not even you—you who are to blame for all my misfortune!"

Faramir tried to shake his head in denial, but found he was completely unable to move. "I do not understand you," he began, "How am I to blame for—"

"You!" she cried hysterically, taking her head out of her hands, "you caused my husband's death! You, and you alone!" She lifted her head then, and Faramir's heart was pierced as he saw the face of Damla, bruised and tear-stained. She looked at him with such venom and hate that he could not stand it and tried to close his eyes. But those too would not move, and he stared at Damla longer and longer, until her hate and anger bored into his very heart and he could bear the pain no longer.

It was at that moment that he felt a sharp stab of pain in his shoulder, as if someone had thrust a knife into his flesh. He screamed in pain, and Damla, the bed, and the room faded from sight as the pain grew worse and worse, consuming his world. When he again opened his eyes he was in the mist again, and the pain of emptiness was worse than it had been last time.

"Please," he begged, searching the darkness for something, anything. "Please do not torment me with those that I love. Hurt me in any way possible, physically. But please, _please_ don't make me see the suffering of my friends!"

The mist began closing in around Faramir's head again, and he let out another agonized yell. "Father!" he cried, and the mist paused for a moment, as if by that one word and the emotion behind it he had overcome the darkness somewhat. Suddenly, almost too fast the realize it, Faramir felt his body, and he was lying on something rough that bit into his back and shoulders. His shoulder throbbed with pain, but he was so glad to be away from the darkness of the mist that he didn't care. He felt weak—weak beyond anything he had ever felt before, but he knew he was lucid. If only he had the strength to open his eyes! He was suddenly aware that he was covered in something sticky and heavy, and there was a strange smell about the stuff he lay on. Everything was so muddled and confused he could hardly make any sense out of it; but suddenly he heard his father's voice beside him. He could not make out any words, but at the sound his heart gave a great leap, and he knew that his father had come to see him and care for him.

Suddenly, he felt something hot touch his skin. Something warm and suffocating was covering his mouth, and he wanted to scream at the lick of pain along his arm and chest. What was it? He began to panic—if only he could open his eyes and see what was happening; if only he could move out of the way of this pain! Where had his father gone? Why was it so warm?

This must be another hallucination, he thought, trying to breath normally, for his breath came in irregular gasps. But why does this one feel so real? He asked himself. Then, just when he thought the pain could not increase, what with the throbbing in his shoulder and the heat filling his body, he felt a pair of hands pushing on his side, and his nerves stood on end in a rush of agony. He was pushed onto his wounded shoulder, over something higher than what he had been lying on, and then he felt himself falling.

He hit the ground with a thud that sent him reeling out of his senses for a moment, only to become once more acutely aware of the stench and pain and horror of this nightmare that seemed so real. And suddenly he found that he had the strength to open his eyelids. Little by little he managed to open them, and as his efforts grew, he saw before him, swimming in a sea of red, a pyre with smoke and fire billowing from it. His father, the Steward of Gondor, lay on top, looking straight at him, and as their eyes met the Steward's mouth opened. "Faramir," he said, and then his gaze shifted and he screamed.

Faramir sank back into oblivion, but this time all he could see were red flames licking up his body. He screamed, again and again, but no one could hear him or help him. He was lost.

* * *

"Please miss, you must go lie down," Kitha said quietly. "You need to rest and regain your strength after that fall. We will need you greatly in the next few days."

Damla shook her head silently, continuing to hold the wet cloth to her head, where the blood had now been wiped away. She sat upright in the chair, watching the bed where Faramir once more lay. Kitha looked silently at Imrahil, who shrugged. Kitha turned away with a sigh and took up a bottle holding some salve. Of this she poured a quantity onto her hand and began to ease some onto the angry red burn marks covering Faramir's arm and part of his chest. Imrahil stepped up to her and beckoned her to follow him to the door.

"What happened?" he asked, gesturing with his head into the room. Kitha looked back at Damla and shook her own head. "I do not know, my Lord," she whispered. "No one does. All I know is that the Lord Denethor came to fetch Faramir, and when he left and we entered the room, she was lying on the floor, her head bleeding. I—I assume she fell," she finished, looking down.

Imrahil swore under his breath. "Very well," he said. He returned to the bedside, lost in thought for a moment as he looked down at Faramir. Ever since they had brought him back to the Houses he had not stirred or given any sign of life, except his constant, shallow breathing. Even that was growing dimmer, as if Faramir was simply fading away before their eyes. Imrahil put out a hand and touched the skin just beneath a burn on Faramir's shoulder, hoping that the contact would, just this once, warrant some reaction and bring his nephew back to him once more. But, just as he knew it would, the touch did nothing, and Faramir did not move.

"How…" Imrahil looked away from the bed and swallowed, then looked back. "How do you think he…" he trailed off and shook his head.

Kitha glanced at Damla and back to Imrahil and bit her lip. Using her most soothing tone, she said, "He seems to be slipping farther and farther away, my Lord. Nothing we can do is helping him. I fear he…anyway, at least he doesn't seem to be in much pain," she finished gently, unaware of just how wrong her words were.

Imrahil nodded silently. "Do you think," he began in a throaty voice, gesturing to the thin marks on Faramir's skin where the fire had licked him, "that this has anything to do with…it?"

Kitha shrugged. "It—it cannot have been very good for him, my Lord," she said quietly. "But he was slipping away from us before that, too."

Imrahil suddenly put a hand up to his face and pressed it there, hard. "I'm sorry, my Lord," Kitha said with a break in her voice, "I should not have said—"

"You are honest with me," Imrahil interrupted, not looking up. "That is what I want." There was silence for a moment, and then Imrahil said, "If there is nothing else you can do for him, you may go tend to others that need it more." The words were harder to say than he thought they would be, but Kitha nodded.

"Very good, my Lord." She curtseyed and left the room without a backward glance. Imrahil stood, undecidedly, next to the bed, staring at his nephew. Then he took up a cloth and wrung out the excess water. He glanced back at Damla, who had not moved from her vigilant spot and smiled thinly. "Do you mind if I talk to him?" he asked, and Damla shook her head. Imrahil turned back to look at his nephew.

"I suppose you can't hear me, Fama," he said softly, wiping his nephew's drenched brow, "But if you can, perhaps you will find my words soothing. I cannot fix my actions now, Fama, but I can beg your forgiveness for them. Was there ever anyone in your life who does not have a burden on their soul to beg your forgiveness? Why were you so easy to hurt—so loving and caring, and yet so vulnerable? You of all people were the most giving, and the most honorable, yet even the most giving cannot keep on giving if all people do is take from them."

Imrahil paused and laughed softly. "At a time like this, all I can remember is the time you came to visit me, on the shore, and your first glance of the ocean was monumental to you, a small boy. You looked up at me with those big, green eyes of yours and said, 'Uncle, why does the sea swallow the sun? It must hurt very much.'" Imrahil shook his head and wiped his eyes. "I can still remember that, after all these years. You were such a curious child, Faramir. And you grew into such a strong, wise man. I was so surprised at your wisdom, when I saw you grown. I remember sitting in counsel, listening to you give your report, and I thought I understood why Denethor was so proud of his sons. He was proud of you Fama, but he wanted more. He needed someone to give and give, for he was not capable of giving himself. He found that person in you.

"Did you ever have a moment to yourself? Did you ever eat for yourself, or sleep for your own wishes? Even when you were not at Denethor's disposal, there was Boromir and his wishes. You loved him so much, but your love blinded you to the way he sucked life out of you, too. You gave so freely, Fama."

Imrahil stopped, and on the bed Faramir's lips moved, then stopped. "I knew you were lonely, Fama, and unhappy. And I as much as anyone should be blamed for allowing you to continue your life, filled with so much loss, and loneliness, and giving. I don't know how I could have helped you, Faramir, but I should have found a way. I should have tried harder. And now…now I can do nothing but watch you die, and you will never know the depth of anyone's love for you." Imrahil bowed his head and rubbed his forehead, in between his eyes. There had been a piercing ache there ever since he had found Faramir on the battlefield. With a sigh, he stood from where he had seated himself on the bed and laid the cloth on the bedside table. "I cannot stand this anymore," he muttered. "If there is truly no help, fine, but I cannot yet believe that. Not until I try to find someone who can heal you." With that, he strode out of the room.

The room was completely silent. Damla's breathing was scarcely louder than Faramir's, and other than the occasional cry echoing through the walls from elsewhere, the room was completely quiet. Faramir's face flinched, once, but after that he made no more movement. Eventually Damla stood, softly, and laid down her wet cloth. She crossed to the bed and stared down at Faramir silently. All her words had been spent; her actions had failed. She knelt by the bed and took Faramir's hand in hers, then pressed her forehead to it. For a long, silent moment nothing happened, and then she burst into tears. Her sobs were choking and deep, and they seemed louder than they really were in the silence of the room.

And still, Faramir did not wake, but continued his slow descent toward death.

* * *

_Notes: This chapter is one of my personal favorites, just because of the way it always makes me hold my breath when I get to the part where Faramir isn't dreaming and thinks he is, and then falls from the pyre--I can just imagine the sickening thud and the pain. Man, I like that part. Is it wrong to like your own work this much? _

_Review below..._


	8. With Healing He Comes

_**Notes**: Guess what? You get an extra long chapter this time, because it just flowed so well together. So enjoy, and don't forget to return the favor with a review!

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**Chapter Eight: With Healing He Comes**

Some time later Damla raised her head at the sound of footsteps approaching, and the door being opened. She stood stiffly and laid Faramir's hand back on the sheets, watching as several men and healers entered the room. One of the men was Imrahil, one was Mithrandir, and there were two others she did not know. A man dressed in the uniform of Rohan stood close to the door, accompanied, she was startled to see, by a hobbit. But the fourth man was the one who drew her attention fully. He was tall, with hair as dark as Faramir's, and eyes that were all at once kind and stern and courageous and noble. He looked weary, but there was something about his bearing that made Damla's heart suddenly lift as it had not lifted in the last forty-eight hours.

Imrahil stepped forward and said something to Mithrandir that she did not hear, for he whispered, and Mithrandir's eyes darted to her for a split-second. She lowered her eyes and bowed silently. The men began to speak amongst themselves, but she paid little attention to what they said. Her heart, which had been so suddenly light, came back down to where it had been. After all, what could these men do for him? Perhaps some of them had healers' knowledge, but Faramir was beyond the need of bodily healing.

When the fourth man stepped forward, however, Damla's eyes followed him and stayed fixed on him rigidly. She knew better than to protest as he pulled down the sheets and gently felt Faramir's limp body, then turned to face Mithrandir. "How did this happen?" he asked. Damla felt that whatever his looks told her heart, his voice told it ten times over. Mithrandir simply shook his head and said something in another language. The man's face turned cold, until he looked back at Faramir. This time he knelt beside the bed and laid his hand on Faramir's forehead.

Faramir didn't respond, and Mithrandir looked away in an uncharacteristic show of grief. Damla wondered at his reaction. Was this man so powerful that he could heal someone simply by touching them? She began to have a tiny seed of doubt in her mind, but her heart continued watching the man as vigilantly as ever. When he first called out, "Faramir!" she almost gasped. What use was it to call for him, as if he was in some far off place and he could come? But the man called, over and over, and as time passed his voice grew fainter—not fainter because he spoke more softly, fainter as if he was being removed from them slowly. Then Damla realized, with a start, that he was walking in some other place—perhaps the place where Faramir was—looking for one who was lost. Looking for Faramir.

* * *

There was not much more that Faramir could endure. Since he had seen his father in the vision with the fire, he had endured hallucination after hallucination. He had seen Boromir, his mother, his uncle, his men, his city, even himself in every tortured, twisted situation possible; had gone through the agony time after time, only to realize that it was nothing but a fevered dream. But every time he came back to the gray darkness, it was a little deeper and more overwhelming. And now the darkness was not black or gray, nor even dark. It was a pattern of moving, changing reds and oranges and yellows—fire, consuming his very will to live. He had no more hallucinations now, only felt the fire eating himself away. There was not much left, now. Everything he knew, or felt, or believed in was gone. He had just enough strength to marvel at the completeness of the misery the shadow could inflict on his very soul, before that thought, too, was swept away by the agony of the flames.

He was weak, now. In the beginning he had searched desperately for a way back to himself. He had screamed, and run, and looked. After a while he had wandered aimlessly, hoping that he would find strength to take him out of this world and back into the real one. Now he slumped, unable to move or do anything for the dreadful weakness upon him, and he was realizing slowly that the shadow was stronger than he was. He had tried, time after time, to defeat it, but it had defeated him, and soon it would all be over. When the shadow had eaten everything it could, he would be released to die. It would not be long now.

He didn't believe at first that the man he suddenly saw was real, for in this realm of shadows, he had seen dream after dream after dream, and all had proven false. Even the dream with his father had not been real, though it had been more real than any other. As the man came closer, he wondered what the shadow could do to him now, now that he was so weak and helpless. He could not fight this dream, not anymore. He closed his eyes with a groan.

"Faramir!" came a voice, and Faramir's eyes opened just a crack. The voice was so unlike the other voices he had heard in his dreams. There was warmth to this one, and something like life. But Faramir knew that no one could save him now, not even Mithrandir; the voice was another trick of the shadow.

"Faramir!" someone called again, and Faramir opened his eyes just a bit wider. This time he saw the man standing before him, stretching his arms out. "I have found you," the voice said, and Faramir's heart suddenly breathed again, if only for a moment. He closed his eyes resolutely, trying to shut this dream out too. He was no longer resigned to his fate, for the dream was too powerful. The others he could endure, but this was different. If this was simply a dream he would die, for just as the others had been so terrible, this one felt so good.

"No," he whispered through cracked lips, "go away. I have not the strength left to fight you."

"Do not fight me," the voice said, so gently that Faramir felt he had not heard words spoken to him like that ever before. "I am here to save you."

Faramir's eyes opened all the way, and he looked up into the most noble face he had ever seen. He knew the face, though he had never seen him before. It was the king. Suddenly, he felt something pulling him down, weighing on him and dragging him somewhere else. The king's face began to fade, and he cried out.

"Faramir!" the king's voice was urgent, "You must fight it! You must not let it drag you away from me, or I cannot save you!"

"I cannot," Faramir moaned, "I have not the strength left. I have fought…please…"

"You _must_!" The king's voice was fading faster. "Faramir, I know you have the strength remaining. Do not give up yet."

Faramir began to struggle with the darkness, just a little. He had not thought he had any strength left; indeed he had very little. But he had some, and with it he fought fiercely. He began to see another hallucination taking form around him.

"No!" he cried out. With a monumental effort, he raised his hand and beat back the darkness, and suddenly, he was back in the fire, and the king was standing before him. He sobbed for breath, and though he felt the king's presence, he had not the strength to open his eyes. Then he felt a cool touch on his forehead, and the king's voice was close to him.

"You had the strength," he whispered gently. "You were always strong."

Faramir wanted to shake his head, but he could not make his body comply. Even his voice would not come out, but the king seemed to sense that. "Come," the king said, "we must leave this world."

Faramir felt the king's arms about his waist, and then he was lifted over the king's shoulder and being carried away from the fire. As they walked, thoughts began to form once more in Faramir's head, and he realized that the fire was fading away. He could not raise his head, but he began to smell something sweet and refreshing—a scent that it seemed he had know all his life, yet never before smelled. He felt the king's arms tense as he lowered him to the ground, which was soft, and then, suddenly, he was staring at a white-washed ceiling, and he knew by the feel of the bed beneath him that he was awake. His eyes turned, slowly, to a face close to his own, and his lips opened.

"My Lord," he said with an effort, "you called me. What does the king command?"

Aragorn's face broke into a smile, and he squeezed Faramir's shoulder, above the burn marks. "Walk no more in shadows, but awake!" he said gently. Then, seeing how Faramir's eyes fought on their own to close, he said, "You are weary, and shall be for some time. Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return."

Faramir breathed deeply for a moment before replying, "I will, Lord. For…who would lie idle when the King has returned?" Aragorn nodded. "Regain your strength," he said in parting, and then he turned to leave the room, followed by Mithrandir and the other man. Yet before he left, he turned toward Damla and smiled at her. Coming closer, he spoke words to her that no one except she could hear. She shook her head slightly, and he laid a hand on her head, where it had struck the bed. Suddenly, she burst into tears and put her head in her hands, and at another word from Aragorn, she nodded and looked up into his eyes, smiling. Then he left the room.

Faramir looked around the room slowly, trying to focus on the people standing near him. Imrahil stepped forward and lay his hand on his nephew's brow, his expression a mixture of too many emotions to read. "Uncle?" Faramir asked uncertainly. Imrahil nodded.

"Yes, Faramir, it is I," he said in a choked voice. "I'm here."

Faramir shut his eyes wearily and took another deep breath. "Where is Damla?" he asked. Damla, wiping her eyes in the corner, looked up in surprise, but stepped toward the bed. "Yes, Faramir?" she asked, "I am here."

Faramir raised his arm slowly and grasped her wrist in a weak grip. "Thank you," he whispered. He swallowed and his cracked lips opened wider. "May I have…a drink?" he whispered. Damla put a hand to her forehead. "Of course!" she said, looking around wildly. The pitcher of water sat on the table next to Imrahil, and he poured some into a cup and handed it to Damla. Then Imrahil stepped to the bed again and, putting his arms and shoulder behind Faramir, raised the younger man's shoulders and head so Damla could hold the cup to his lips. Faramir drank greedily, and closed his eyes as Imrahil lowered him back to the bed. "I'm sorry," he said softly, and then his head fell to one side, his chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths; Damla checked his pulse and forehead. "The fever is broken," she said, looking up at Imrahil. "His pulse is steady…he sleeps."

Finally allowing himself to relax, Imrahil bowed his head and wept.

* * *

Damla entered the room bearing a bowl of water in the crook of her right arm, several bottles of drugs in her left hand, and fresh bandages slung over her arm. She paused for a moment at the door, smiling slightly at the calm pervading the room. They had put Faramir in the east wing because it was the quietest—the entrance to the Houses was in the west wing—and he had the best chance of rest on this side of the building. His room was small, but refreshing and clean, and there were few who had their own rooms besides Faramir. Space was limited, what with the battle casualties, and most of the rooms had at least three occupants. Faramir had received extra care first because of the seriousness of his illness, and secondly because of his rank and the love the people of Minus Tirith bore for him.

Damla turned toward the bed and smiled at the sight of Faramir resting with his eyes closed against the white pillows. She knew he was not asleep; she had known him long enough to tell that his light breathing and fine, single crease in the center of his forehead bespoke of wakefulness. Nevertheless, she set the various articles she carried on the side table and turned to pick up a discarded shirt lying on the floor. Behind her, she heard him stir, and upon turning, she saw his eyes fixed on her.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, coming to his side and laying a hand on his forehead. "I hope you have been resting."

Faramir smiled slightly and nodded. "I have been drugged well," he said softly. At her swift apologetic smile, he went on. "It can only help my body heal."

"Rest is the best thing," she agreed. "Except, perhaps, some fresh bandages." Faramir groaned and turned his face away. Damla smiled at him and turned to the table. "Come, it can't be that bad!" she laughed. "They are healing so well!"

"But I am still so tender," he said, "and you are abnormally rough as a healer."

Damla turned back to him and pulled the blankets down to reveal his bare chest, covered in bandages. "And you are just a big child, Fama," she said. "Now try to be brave." She gently cut the knot holding the cloth in place and helped him ease it off. The wound on his shoulder was puckered and crusty with blood, but it was healing. She dipped a cloth in the bowl of water and said, "Now hold still, will you?"

Faramir winced slightly as she dabbed at the blood, and he turned his eyes to the window in an attempt to distract himself. "I thought I told you that you must not call me 'Fama' anymore," he murmured. Damla shrugged. "I tried," she said matter-of-factly, "but it was too much of a habit. I have gotten better," she said as she turned to pick up a bottle of salve, "but when we are alone, surely you cannot restrict the word. I have, after all, known you almost as long as I can remember."

"Ahh!" the exclamation was out before Faramir could stop it, and he smiled crookedly at Damla. "Forgive me…it burns like the fire of Uncas." Damla nodded and wiped her hands on a clean cloth. She bound the wound quickly, then turned to the wound on his lower left side. "Why did you not tell me about this one?" she asked as she unwrapped it. "You should have had it dressed before you left the city."

Faramir's eyes turned a shade darker, and he looked away again. Damla knew what he was thinking about, and she was angry with herself for mentioning anything to do with the past. But then again, Faramir would have to face it sooner or later. She was divided, half of herself wishing that someone else could tell him about all the events that had transpired while he was unconscious, and the other half hoping that none but intimate lips, such as her own, would tell him. She pursed her lips as she applied salve to the shallower wound and bound it.

"Now," she said as she washed her hands in the bowl, "are you hungry today?" She strode to the door and poked her head out. "Kitha!" she called to the maid scurrying past, "bring some broth." Faramir smiled at her as she turned. "I am slightly hungry," he said. "But there is no need to baby me so."

"Nonsense," Damla said, fluffing the pillow behind his head. As she turned to pull the sheet back up, he caught her wrist; her eyes met his. "Damla," he said softly, "there are others who need your help much more than I."

Damla turned and took his hand in her small one. "But they are not my friends, Fama, whom I have not seen nor spoken with for many days, if not weeks. I think I can spare some time for you."

Faramir's eyes fell to the blankets covering his body, and he smiled crookedly. "I am so weak," he said. "I feel in my mind that I should be doing something…helping my men…but I cannot move my body to comply."

Damla squeezed his arm. "The only thing you should be doing right now, Fama, is regaining your strength for whatever comes next. There is much Gondor will need you for, when you are strong enough."

There was a knock on the door, and Damla opened it for Kitha, who bore a tray with soup and soft, white bread on it. At Damla's bidding the girl set it on the table and then made her exit. "How does it smell?" Damla asked. Faramir smiled and held up his hand; Damla saw that it shook fiercely from the strain of holding it up. "You will have to help me," he said apologetically. "I fear I might spill it."

Damla laughed and drew a stool up beside him. "I will pretend I am feeding one of my sons," she said merrily. "But you must promise to be as good as they are." She held the bowl close to his face, so as not to spill any on the way over, and fed him slowly. He closed his eyes and savored the soup as it slid down his throat. "I have not tasted hot broth since…" his eyes suddenly opened and he looked at her. "How is Eliphalet?" he asked, remembering his dream. "Is he…how is he…"

Damla smiled at his concern for her husband. "He's recovering much too rapidly," she answered. "I fear he will gain all his strength back before the captains are ready to—" she broke off sharply and turned to the tray; she was not fast enough. Faramir's hand was on her shoulder, forcing her to look back at him. His eyes were steel gray, full of hidden command. Damla knew she would have to tell him, for lying to him was almost impossible.

"Damla," he said softly, but with authority beyond his years, "what are the captains planning to do?" She shook her head and set the bowl on the table, unnerved at the look in his eyes. "I cannot say for sure," she said. "There is no complete—"

"Damla," he said even softer, and when she looked up she was surprised to see only pain in his eyes. "The men of Gondor are still under my command," he said. "Well—I at least have the right to know what their plans are, and who commands them now. Is—is my father…" he turned away and shut his eyes. Damla sat in silence, part of her not knowing what to say, and the other wishing to blurt out everything she knew. That part of her she ruthlessly silenced.

"Please," he finally said, and she heard the silent plea in his voice, "tell me. Or I will ask someone else." She saw in his eyes that he meant it, and it was the assurance that he would that drove her to raise her hands and say, "Very well, Faramir, I'll tell you. The Lords Imrahil, Eomer of Rohan, Aragorn the Dunedain, and Mithrandir are planning a march on the Black Gate. What hope they have of succeeding in such an endeavor I do not know, but there must be some chance, or I am sure they would not be so foolhardy as to try it."

Faramir's quick mind at once flew to the reason for such a 'foolhardy' mission. He looked away, toward the window, forgetting for a moment that Damla sat next to him and that he lay on the bed, unable to hold a spoon. "Of course," he murmured. "They wish to draw his attention away…! But they cannot possibly hope to…" he unconsciously sat up, then sank back with a hiss of pain. His eyes fell once again on Damla and the sick room. Raising his hands, he lowered his head into them and groaned. "They mean to leave me here, do they not?" he said in a pained voice.

Damla looked at him helplessly. "You were so ill, Fama, it will take you a long time to recover. You have not the strength to sit up on your own—how do you expect to march with them and bear the weight of armor, much less fight?" Seeing his face still turned away, she reached out and touched his arm. "You must listen to reason, Fama! Please, just this once let the city be led by someone else. Let another man expend his blood and energy."

Faramir turned his eyes on Damla, and her heart broke at the sight of the anger and hurt in them. "If I do not lead them," he said softly, "it will be because I am not physically able. My duty is to my city, and my people. I will not willingly abandon them. The only thing that can stop me from leading my men is if I cannot lift a blade or walk in a straight line." He looked down at himself and swallowed, only then seeming to realize that his words had just described his present condition.

Damla stood slowly and mixed some herbs into a cup of water. The silence in the room was heavy, and she could think of nothing else to say. When she handed the cup to him, to her surprise, he drank it without protesting or looking at her. After he had drunk it, he closed his eyes and lay his forearm across them. As Damla was going out of the room, holding the tray of half-eaten food, she heard his voice, soft and hazy, behind her.

"Where is my father?" he asked. "Why does he not visit me?" She turned back to see him still in the same attitude, but by the muscles relaxing in his body, she knew he was close to unconsciousness. "Go to sleep," she said gently, and then shut the door.

* * *

The sky had darkened considerably since Damla had left the room, and the shadows crawling toward the bed held a sense of completeness in them that only a very observant person would notice. It was as if the shadows designed to remain forever, never meaning to give way to light and sunshine again. On the bed, Faramir's lips moved, speaking quickly and soundlessly, and his brow was drawn tightly. As if a cold finger had been drawn down his spine, he shivered and his arm, which had been laid across his eyes, was flung away from his face. A grimace of physical pain followed this action, and for a moment he seemed to be on the verge of waking, but whatever dream or drug held him in its grasp was too strong, and he began talking silently again.

It was not long before his lips stopped moving and the soundless words were replaced by heavy, aggravated breathing. His fingers moved, instead of his lips, twisting the sheets and restlessly curling in upon themselves and out again. His whole body bespoke of some tortured dream, a dream that completely consumed him, yet his body, except his hand and head, moved not at all. He lay quite still, as if conscious that any sound he made could be easily heard in another room.

Suddenly, a shadow moved from the doorway and stepped over to the bed, stared down at it for a moment, and then laid its hand on Faramir's forehead. "Come back," the shadow whispered.

Immediately, Faramir's breathing calmed, and his hand ceased its frantic jerking. His eyes opened slowly, and for a moment their green depths were clouded, and glanced around the room quickly, but then they settled on the face of the man above him, and cleared. "My Lord," Faramir said softly, but this time there was no easy comfort. Faramir sensed at once his undignified state, and though he was not a proud man, his spirit was wounded at the knowledge that his King had seen him only in times when he was most in need.

Aragorn sensed the feeling and withdrew his hand. "Greetings again," he said gently. Glancing around the room, he went on, "It is chill in here, especially with the approaching darkness." He went over to the fireplace, where the fire had died to glowing embers, and piled some wood onto it. As the flames licked at the wood and began to crackle, Faramir turned his face silently away from the brightness. The sudden light hurt his eyes, but that was only part of the reason he turned away. His dream had been disturbingly realistic.

Aragorn turned back from the fire and smiled at the man on the bed. He moved over to the bedside table and wet a cloth in a basin of water, then stooped and lay the cloth on Faramir's brow. Immediately Faramir felt his headache, which had been so consuming a moment ago, melt away under Aragorn's touch. Nevertheless, his mind was filled with the indecency of the situation, and he struggled against the warmth and security he began to feel.

"Relax," Aragorn commanded, though his voice was soft. "I will not judge you because of your wounds."

Aragorn's words, which would have seemed strangely odd to anyone else, suddenly shamed Faramir. His king was concerned for his well-being, and was helping him—did he not deserve at least his own cooperation? He purposefully relaxed, and accordingly felt himself slipping back to sleep, far from the dreams and images.

Aragorn removed the cloth and dipped it back into the basin, turning back to wipe the sweat off of the rest of Faramir's face and his chest. He raised the bandages slightly to see if the wounds were healing properly, and then simply stared at the young man once more. He knew how hard the next few months, and even years, would be for Faramir. His body would have no problem healing—he was already well on his way, and out of danger—but his spirit had been bent so far, Aragorn knew how much of a struggle it would be for it to heal. The dream he had just witnessed was, he knew, only the first of many dreams just like it. Faramir did not even know what had passed while he was unconscious. He did not know that his father was dead, and someday, he would need to know what had happened between his father and him. Someday.

Aragorn shook his head and touched Faramir's brow once more. The healing would be difficult, there was no doubt. But Aragorn had the sense that if there was any man who had the strength for such a healing, it was Faramir. His biggest regret was that needs would cause everyone he held dear—his uncle, cousins, Mithrandir, and even the hobbit Pippin—to be taken away in these first difficult healing weeks, if not forever. At least there was the healer—Damla—to stay with him and help him.

"I will return," Aragorn said softly to the sleeping man, "and then I will talk with you, and we will learn about each other." With that, he turned and left the room, which was now warm.

* * *

True to his word, Aragorn returned the next morning to find Amrothos, Faramir's cousin, just standing to leave. The ranger was at once amazed at the smile on Faramir's face, and was astonished at the way Faramir's face was completely changed by the expression. It was his eyes, Aragorn realized, that made the change so startling; the same eyes that had been so troubled and pained last night were now brimming with some inner, exuberant warmth. Aragorn immediately felt that Faramir had a gift of making the person he was with feel just as much joy as he felt—indeed, perhaps more.

Amrothos clasped his cousin's hand and said gently, "Rest up—we will need you in whatever is to come." His words were hopeful, but by their tone Aragorn knew Amrothos had been telling his cousin about the captains' plans. He was not surprised, for from all he had heard about Faramir, it would seem that he was a man difficult to keep secrets from. As Amrothos turned toward the door he seemed startled to see Aragorn standing there and gave a slight bow. "My Lord Aragorn," the tall, dark–haired man said, recovering sufficiently to smile at him. "Please excuse me."

Aragorn nodded as he passed him and strode through the door, and then the ranger turned his attention on Faramir. The young man looked better than he had last night, and Aragorn could tell simply by looking into his eyes that his sleep had been peaceful for the rest of the night. There was a flush to his cheeks, but it was not one of fever, and he was sitting almost straight up, supported by a few pillows. Faramir bowed his head and laid his arm across his breast in respect and deference before saying, "Greetings, my liege."

Aragorn studied the man before him in an attempt to discover some feelings of unrest or hidden meaning behind the words, but he sensed only loyalty and submission in Faramir. Yet he knew there were so many questions Faramir had about him. Doubtless Amrothos had answered some of them, and Aragorn had the distinct feeling that Faramir knew already, even without knowing much about him, that he was trustworthy. He had known the minute he had awoken from the other realm out of which Aragorn had rescued him.

"How does your healing proceed?" Aragorn smiled, seating himself beside the bed. "Do your wounds pain you?"

"Only a little," Faramir said honestly. His eyes flashed over Aragorn quickly, and Aragorn realized this was probably the first time Faramir had seen him when he was lucid enough to form an opinion. The man seemed to be satisfied with a simple glance, however, and returned his eyes to Aragorn's face. "I wish to thank you," Faramir said suddenly, "for what you have done for me. I have never before walked in shadow to—to that extent," he finished. After a short pause he went on, "I knew the only one with enough power to heal me would be the king," he murmured.

Aragorn was at a loss for words as he looked into the green eyes opposite him. They held so much plain gratitude and yet reserve that he did not quite know how to respond to this man's honesty and respect. "It was not my strength alone," he finally said, "I have never encountered anyone so fixed in the grasp that was able to return to this world."

Faramir looked away, and both men seemed mutually embarrassed and ready to turn the conversation elsewhere. It was Faramir who spoke first. "They tell me the army of Mordor was vanquished by an army of dead men, held to an ancient oath." Aragorn confirmed the report, and for some time they spoke of the final battle, the ancient curse, and the city's victory. Aragorn was amazed at how knowledgeable Faramir was on the subject of ancient lore, and finally asked him how he had opportunity to know so much of Gondorian history. Faramir smiled apologetically.

"The archives in Minus Tirith have been kept strictly, and are only in recent years falling into some disrepair. There is still much to be learned in those books and scrolls, for an inquisitive adolescent, or a man in need of diversion." Faramir raised a hand to massage his left shoulder—almost the only exposed skin on his upper body without a bandage. "Mithrandir was a great encouragement to me as well, and we often poured over scrolls together in my youth."

Aragorn was suddenly aware of Faramir's left arm resting lightly on the bedclothes, and he noticed with an imperceptible shock that there were burn marks covering it, traveling up to his neck and shoulder. He was amazed that he had not noticed them before, and realized that besides being painful, they must be quite a puzzlement to Faramir. A disturbing puzzlement, no doubt, after his dreams of fire. Aragorn looked up, realizing that his stare would turn Faramir's thoughts to the burns too, and that might be painful to him. But the king-to-be was not quick enough, and he saw at a glance that Faramir had noticed where his eyes lay and what his thoughts were. To Aragorn's surprise, however, Faramir did not question him on the subject, and Aragorn thought this must have something to do with the young man's remarkable judgment and patience. Yet Faramir's next words were still a shock to Aragorn.

"Tell me, my lord—the Halfling, Peregrin—is he unharmed?" Faramir's voice was earnest as he lowered his right hand to the bed again. "He did not enter into the battle?"

Aragorn shook his head. "He is completely safe and just as full of life as always. He—he saw no fighting," he said haltingly. Aragorn's words had always flowed steadily, but in the presence of Faramir, even he felt unable to conceal even the most simple truths. He knew that Faramir would suspect much from his words, but again, he asked no questions. Aragorn began to wonder if it was because he respected the fact that Aragorn might not wish to tell him, or if it was some reluctance on his own part to hear the truth. He must suspect that something had happened while he was unconscious, if from the burns on his body, the absence of his father, or the evasiveness his visitors showed in speaking. Faramir was, Aragorn was quickly coming to understand, much the opposite of a fool.

They spoke for some time longer of inconsequential matters, and then Aragorn rose reluctantly. Faramir was, even on his sickbed, a stimulating companion to talk with, and his knowledge on a variety of subjects astounded Aragorn and made him wish he could spend more time talking with him. But he knew he would be needed in other places, and accordingly he began to say goodbye.

"Lord Aragorn," Faramir said suddenly, reaching with his burned arm to grasp Aragorn's own arm, "Please." His eyes were suddenly drastically different, and where just a moment ago was civility and pleasure was intense fear. Aragorn immediately knew that the man he had been conversing with in that last moment was just one of the facets of the entire man, and this side he saw now was probably consuming the greater, unseen portion. He felt at once flattered and apprehensive that Faramir was sharing his emotions with him, when he had not been able to do so with his cousin. "Please," Faramir went on, "I must know. Why does my father not visit me?"

The question was so blunt that Aragorn could see no way around it, and he knew also that not knowing was hurting Faramir more than knowing would. Aragorn felt stupid at not having realized that by allowing Faramir to think his father was alive, he was condemning the man to suspect his father uncaring and willfully neglecting to see him while he was recovering. Yet Aragorn did not answer at once, for he was unsure how to phrase the reply with enough tact.

"My cousin and uncle will tell me nothing," Faramir said, and now his eyes would not meet Aragorn's. "Mithrandir, Damla…all will not let me know why he stays away. Is he not capable of coming? Or has he…" Faramir trailed off, and his arm fell limply to the coverlet in an attitude of bitter pain. Aragorn immediately laid his hand on his shoulder, above the burns, and said unhesitatingly, "Faramir, there is no way for me to make this softer. Your father fell during the battle."

Faramir's head snapped up, his eyes boring into Aragorn, as if willing him to be lying. He of course saw no lie in Aragorn's countenance, and his eyes shot to the window, then the floor, and then to his arm, lying on the bed. His breathing hitched, and Aragorn knew it was not because of his physical condition. "When—?" he whispered, and Aragorn shook his head. "Not many hours before I brought you back."

As Faramir's shoulders began to shake, Aragorn stood and backed toward the door. "I will leave you now," he said, though he knew Faramir could not hear him. He quitted the room and paused outside the closed door, unsure for the moment what to do. He saw Damla making her way toward the room carrying a tray of food, and he caught her arm. "He is not hungry now," he said softly. She looked up at him in wonder.

"My Lord?" she asked uncertainly. Aragorn placed his hand on her shoulder. "I have told him about his father." At her ejaculation he cut her off. "Not all of it," he said. "I have told him that he is dead, but not how. _That_ he should not know for many days yet, though I am sure rumors will run wild. I leave it to you to see that those rumors do not reach his ears until he is ready to hear the truth from someone he loves."

Damla took a deep breath and steadied herself. "He is curious about the burns," she said softly. "It is terribly hard to lie to him, my Lord."

Aragorn nodded. "You will have to tell him soon," he agreed. "But let it not be until his health has returned and he has the freedom to walk the gardens and sort through this. You must tell him, and you must provide the support he will need."

"My Lord, I—"

"You are the only one remaining here with him that he trusts," Aragorn insisted. "I know how terrible it will be, and how difficult. He will be horrified, as we all are, and he likely will not know how to deal with it." His grip on her shoulder grew tighter. "You must _not_ let him retreat into himself," he said forcefully. "No matter how much pain it seems to cause him, and how hard it might be to draw him out, you must not let him become a hardened shell. I am counting on you, Damla."

Damla bit her lip as a tear slid down her cheek. "I know this is a lot to ask," Aragorn said more gently, "but for Faramir's sake, you must try."

"I will try," she said ardently, "but whether I succeed or not is entirely in Eru's hands."

"And Eru will give you strength," Aragorn said.

* * *

_**Notes**: I'm sorry if this chapter reflected a certain 'Jane Austen'ish quality. I confess, I was reading 'Pride and Prejudice' at the time I wrote this (which was in early June), and I find it rubbed off on my writing quite alarmingly! I really could not help writing with big words and the same type of trick of words Austen had. So forgive me—it really was unconscious. _


	9. The Frozen Maiden

_**Notes:** My sincere apologies for not posting! One thing after another got in the way, and well, what with school and Christmas and a story I wrote for my brother and so on...it was crazy. Forgive me? _

_Enter Thailan and Eowyn...Thailan I own, Eowyn I, sadly, do not. Also re-enter Tirinion, and for those of you who hate the 'thees' and 'thous', bear with me once more. I hope you like my nod to The Return of the King...they did do some things right in that movie:-)_

**Chapter Nine: The Frozen Maiden**

It was not until the host had started marching east that Faramir was able to rise from his bed. On the morning after the Captains of the West led their men out of Gondor, Faramir was pronounced strong enough to stand and was assisted in dressing himself. The servant who had been assigned to him—Thailan was his name—was a lanky young man with curly hair and a ready grin, but he had steady, careful hands and was very capable. Faramir had not been in Minus Tirith often enough to require a full-time servant, but now that he was wounded he realized how much he needed Thailan.

The youth chose a simple blue tunic for Faramir, and he put it on without complaint. He vaguely remembered the article of clothing, but in Ithilien all his clothing had been either brown or green, and in Minus Tirith he had most often worn the formal dress black uniform. For banquets and feasts, of which there had been fewer and fewer in recent years, Faramir had mostly worn rich greens or midnight blues, so the light color seemed refreshing to him. Thailan smiled as he eased the tunic over his lord's head. "Easy does it," he said in his lilting voice. "There's no need to jostle the wounds."

Faramir sank down onto the bed and took a deep breath, surprised at how much dressing had tired him. He smiled lopsidedly at his servant. "It's odd to be this weak."

"You will soon be as strong as ever," Thailan said, folding Faramir's discarded clothes and piling them on a chair. "You are recovering far faster than the healers thought you would."

"But not fast enough," Faramir said absently, his gaze traveling to the window.

Thailan frowned and turned toward the table. "Are you thirsty, my lord?" he asked. The sound of liquid pouring into a cup made Faramir start from his reverie and glance at the boy. "A little," he admitted. After drinking the beverage he stood, supporting himself on the bed frame.

"Thailan," he said suddenly, "is there a man named Tirinion in the houses?" Faramir had suddenly remembered the ranger who had so many times befriended him in the past few weeks. His thoughts had been dwelling recently on his men, though he was loath to talk freely of them, and a little frightened of knowing exactly how many of them had survived.

Thailan's brow furrowed. "Tirinion, my lord? I know no Tirinion…"

Faramir's stomach tightened, and his face must have shown it, for Thailan smiled suddenly. "But if anyone knows, it would be Ioreth. I will ask her directly—wait here." The handsome young man quitted the room with his usual energy, and Faramir sank back down upon the bed. As the minutes ticked by he lowered his head into his hands; his head throbbed with the same headache that had plagued him ever since he had been healed. It was not a usual stress or fatigue inspired headache—somehow it seemed heavier and more consuming. In any case, the blunt pain in his head seemed to make the rest of his body ache as well.

"My lord!" Thailan's voice preceded him, and Faramir struggled to stand. The youth hurried into the room and skidded to a stop with a grin on his face. When he had caught his breath sufficiently he managed to pant out, "There is such a man—recovering from a serious chest wound—in the northern wing of this building."

Faramir smiled with sudden relief, and he was unconscious of the emotional attachment he had placed on the ranger from Belfalas. The knowledge that he at least, of all his rangers, was alive was some comfort to Faramir, and he immediately turned toward the door. "I do not know my way," Faramir said as he walked slowly toward the door, conscious of how large the building was. "Will you help me find him, Thailan?"

Thailan fell into step with him, slowing his quick steps to match Faramir's much slower ones. "Aye, but are you sure you wish to go that far today, my lord?" At Faramir's quick glance, he clarified himself with, "You are still recovering, and the warden will have my head if you do not take it slowly at first."

Faramir shook his head, knowing the lad would appreciate a smile, but not able to give it. "I will be fine."

They were silent the rest of the way to the northern wing, and though Faramir had to stop and catch his breath more than once, his steady steps showed how much strength he had regained. As they passed through a doorway and descended three stairs into a large room, a sudden hush fell over the men gathered there, and Faramir knew they were surprised and pleased to see him. He felt a rush of warmth toward them, but also an aching sense of guilt. These men were all here because their wounds had been so serious they could not march with the host to Mordor, and having felt the shame and pain of that himself, he felt intense guilt at having caused that feeling for them. After all, they had been under his leadership. Yet no matter how much guilt he felt as seeing these men, he felt much, much more guilt at the thought of the beds not filled—the thought of men who now lay under mounds out on the Pelennor.

Thailan pointed toward a bed at the far end of the room, and with flagging strength Faramir limped toward it. Thankfully there was a chair nearby that Thailan drew up for him, and he seated himself gratefully, while at the same time acutely aware of the men still staring at him. On the bed the bright eyes of Tirinion also stared at him, and though the ranger's face was pale and sunken and his skin still had a slight flush to it, Faramir knew he was recovering. Their eyes met for a long moment, and then Faramir's hand reached out and lay on Tirinion's shoulder.

He had wondered greatly, on the way over, what he was to say to the man, but as he stared into the other man's brown eyes, his insecurity fell away. "You are alive," he said breathlessly, and though the words might have seemed idiotic, neither man felt anything but wonder and joy. "I was so afraid for you," Faramir said, and he didn't realize as he uttered the words that he had very rarely shared his feelings so freely before. Tirinion knew, and he smiled at his captain.

"It's so good to see thee, Captain." Tirinion raised his hand to clasp Faramir's arm on his shoulder; Faramir saw that his entire chest was bandaged. "They would tell me nothing about thee, until thee awoke."

Faramir breathed deeply, as much from his gratitude to be sitting down as from the goodness of seeing his friend. "And how do you feel?" He watched his ranger's face grow dimmer and then smile in an attempt at cheer.

"Not too bad, Captain. I'm recovering." Tirinion's voice was brave, but Faramir saw the pain in it immediately, and he knew what caused it.

"We are all regretting the fact that we…" Faramir found his voice falter, but he overcame it and finished, "We could not march with our brothers."

Tirinion bowed his head and shook it. "I cannot lie to thee, Captain. I feel the dishonor of lying here while my fellow Gondorians and even the Rohirrim march to the Black Gate. It is as if my honor has been blackened by forces not my own."

Faramir grip surprised both Tirinion and himself in its strength. "You are not dishonored," he said firmly. "You fought bravely, you and all the rest of the men here. There is no reason to feel that the honor of our men—the honor of the rangers—is diminished." As his words settled between them he looked down and shook his head. "Tirinion, your brother died because of the threat from Mordor. My brother died because of the threat from Mordor. At a time like this, we do not need to be lamenting our lost fighting time—we should remember the fallen and be grateful that we had the time to avenge them."

Tirinion's eyes were full of pain when Faramir looked back into them, but he nodded. "Thou wert there when he died?" he asked softly.

Faramir nodded. Whatever he could say seemed irrelevant in the face of Tirinion's grief, and he knew that speaking of it would only bring his own brother's death closer to his mind and heart. But he had to, anyway. "Yes. You and I—we have survived the fire of hell, have we not? And we will bear the scars forever."

Tirinion's nodded, and Faramir was overcome with grief at what the ranger had lost—his brother, his vocation, and very likely his home. Faramir was at a loss as to what he could say to comfort him, and his overwhelming grief at his own losses suddenly seemed smaller. He knew, however, that Tirinion needed some company, and so for the next half hour he talked to the ranger. Faramir words were quiet and heartfelt, and the ranger was indeed comforted by Faramir's unsure words.

It was not until he felt Thailan's hand on his shoulder that he realized how weary he was, and he was suddenly aware of the bite of the hard chair into his back, and the way his hands and legs had started trembling. He realized with a sick feeling that he still had to return to his room, and the thought of the long corridors first sickened him and then gave him a wry sense of humor. How short they seemed compared with the long marches and sentry duties that had seemed perfectly doable to him only a week ago. Accordingly he steeled himself for the walk back to his room and stood from the chair. "Rest well," he said in parting, "We shall walk in the gardens together soon."

As he turned to go, trying to ignore the pain in his stomach and shoulder, he once again saw all the eyes in the room fixed on himself, and wondered briefly if they had been for the entire interview. It was very likely. With a glance at Thailan, Faramir said, "Lead on." The young man nodded and started forward, slowly. Faramir tried not to catch the men's eyes as he walked; the thoughts and feelings he saw etched into every one of them shamed him. He saw unflinching loyalty reflected there, mixed with admiration and unfailing love. They loved him. _He_, who had betrayed them all at the final stand and had failed to bring even a third of their companions back. Faramir felt his stomach twist uncomfortably, and this time it was not because he was in pain.

At the door Faramir felt something grasp the edge of his tunic, and he had barely the strength to stay erect even at the light touch. He turned, and his eyes fell on a young man, barely twenty, lying on a bed so close to him he wondered that he hadn't immediately noticed the man before. He had blonde hair which had been cropped short, for what injury Faramir did not know, and his eyes, which would normally have been a very usual blue-gray, were so bright with admiration and joy that Faramir paused and was stuck speechless. The man did not care; he had a speech of his own to give.

"Captain," he said roughly, his voice rising just enough above the bustle of the building to be heard, "I am glad to see you are well." His words were simple and very concise, but Faramir read far more in them than the young man could hope to convey. Faramir saw what his visit meant to his men—in their eyes it was a token of how much he cared for them, and in that aspect they were correct. Yet he also read unfathomable hope in the man's words and gaze, as if by merely surviving and being alive to speak with them, Faramir was helping them cope with their struggles, and bringing notions of victory amongst them. He didn't understand those emotions, but he found himself flattered nonetheless, even though he still felt a deep sense of guilt.

"Thank you, soldier," Faramir said softly. "I am glad to see you are recovering as well." Faramir felt Thailan's hand assert pressure on his arm, and he let himself be drawn from the room, conscious now of the hope lighting up every face. Once out of the room, however, his physical pain came crashing down on him and he had to stop and lean against the wall, drawing breath into his aching lungs. His headache, which he had ignore all during his visit, was so fierce he almost felt he could not keep his head erect, and his limbs felt so weak that he didn't know how he was going to make it back to his room. But there was no alternative, and Faramir told himself that he was simply paying for his own folly in trying to do too much on his first day up.

"Let's just do one step at a time." Thailan's voice, which was fast growing both familiar and welcome to Faramir, sounded next to him, and he didn't mind at all the informality of Thailan's words. Faramir nodded slightly and forced his body to cooperate. One step at a time, he reminded himself, his thoughts growing foggier—that's all it takes.

* * *

Faramir was still sleeping, sprawled on the bed where he had collapsed, when Damla entered with his supper. She took one look at his face and her eyes turned on Thailan, who was sitting on the windowsill watching his charge. The room was immaculate, and it was evident that the young man had been cleaning for however long he had been in the room. Damla's eyes narrowed as she looked at Thailan; his wide, frank eyes stared back into hers candidly.

With a huff of displeasure, Damla turned to the bedside table and began grinding herbs with a pestle and mixing them together. Every so often her glare fell on Thailan again, who was still sitting. Finally she said, "This will help to _ease_ the _pain_."

Thailan shifted, but not because he was uncomfortable under her stare. True, Damla was formidable when she was angry, and Thailan was fully aware of just how much influence she had in the Houses, but he was a level-headed lad and he knew when he was wrong and when he was right. He continued to calmly sit, watching her mix the drink, and when she moved to the bed he rose and raised Faramir's shoulders and head in his arms so she could give him the drink. Faramir did not wake as the warm liquid slipped down his throat.

As soon as he had laid Faramir's body back on the bed Damla took his arm and pulled him out of the door and into the hallway, which was deserted. She whirled on him as the door clicked behind them. "Would you like to explain that?!" she whispered fiercely. Before he could reply she held her hands up. "Don't bother—I can guess. He was allowed up for the first time today, and you let him walk much too far. Do you have any idea of how much pain he was probably in?"

Thailan looked at her with big eyes and ran a hand through his hair. "I know it was too far," he said with a shake of his head, "and I was terribly sorry when we were coming back and I knew he was in pain. But he will be fine."

Damla snorted in displeasure. "Fine, yes, sure, he'll be perfectly fine." She too shook her head. "That's not the _point_ Thailan!"

"Don't replace me." The suddenness, randomness, and authority of the request startled Damla, and she gazed at him in wonder.

"And why should I not?" she asked, placing a hand on her hip.

"He needs a friend, not just a servant," Thailan said, knowing full well how shocked anyone but Damla would be. "He has so much to learn about what happened, and he needs someone to filter what he hears until the time is right. Who else would you assign? Maachus? He won't let Lord Faramir walk too far, that's for sure, but will he listen when Faramir needs to talk? Will he care about the wounds inside, or just outside? Or maybe Rilian? He would be even worse—he would probably be gossiping about him to the pretty kitchen maids."

It was a bold speech, and he knew it. But Damla was, as he knew, not a fool, and she had known Faramir longer than anyone in the Houses. She was not likely to miss the point of his words. She looked into his honest eyes for a moment, as if seeing if he really was making a good point, and then looked down at her feet. "You're right," she said softly. "But you must promise me you will be more careful, and make him be more careful."

"I promise," he answered seriously. Damla's hand gripped his forearm.

"I'm in earnest," she said.

"So am I," he replied. They looked at each other, then both nodded. Stepping apart, Damla went down the hallway and Thailan returned to the room to watch over his lord.

* * *

Faramir stretched his hand in front of his face and looked at the muscles and skin taunt over bones. He held it up towards the sunlight, seeing as if with new eyes the way the sun glanced off his skin. Everything looked new and fresh today, for it was the first time he had been outside since he had been called back from the shadow, and he felt the blood rushing through his veins with new vigor. It almost felt like life would be alright, at that moment; as if what was happening now to the host did not matter, nor the fact that his family and world had crumbled around him.

Thailan had withdrawn to a distance and was sitting on a bench, legs drawn up in front of him, sketching on a spare piece of parchment. The young man was a gifted, though unrecognized artist, and Faramir had vowed to himself that when he recovered, and if peace was somehow restored, he would commission Thailan to paint for him. One look at the quick charcoal sketch of a bird outside the window of Faramir's room had convinced Faramir of his little-known skill. Indeed, the more Faramir interacted with his vivacious servant, the more he liked him, and the less he thought of him as a servant. He was conscious of the fact that Thailan had some charm about him that was subtle but convincing—some trick of speech or character that could convince a person to do his bidding. Faramir often thought that it was lucky Thailan had a true heart and honest tongue, or he would be a dangerous man.

Thailan understood Faramir's needs, too, almost instinctually, and for that Faramir was infinitely grateful. Just now, for example, Thailan understood Faramir's unspoken wish to be alone and free to reacquaint himself with nature and the real world (or such that the Houses could offer). Any other servant would most likely have sat with him, like a parent with a child, watching over him lest he hurt himself. Thailan, on the other hand, seemed to have no problem walking the fine line between attentiveness and coddling.

As Faramir lowered his hand his thoughts turned elsewhere, and he thought long on his illness and wounds. He would have to be a dotard to not notice the burn marks covering his arm and shoulder and reaching one scarlet finger up to his throat. He had tried not to think about them, or where he had got them, shying away subconsciously from the threat they held. Now he fingered the wounds, dwelling on them purposefully. A tremor ran up his spine as he felt the tingle of pain upon touching them, and he dropped his hand back to his side, casting his eyes elsewhere. He had been on the point of asking Thailan time and again where they had come from, but he had never found the courage. He was ashamed of his weakness, and his intuition told him that the people surrounding him knew the story well and were capable of telling him. Yet his intuition also told him that however he had gotten the marks would, if he knew the story, cause him pain.

He ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes against the world. Everything these days seemed to cause pain; it was almost to the point where he was numb to the feelings. He didn't want to be numb, and he knew he had not always been like this. He could remember light and joy—joy tingling through his body, making him light-headed. But it had been so long since he had felt such joy, and in the recent months…well, there had been so much pain that he had to stretch his thoughts back a long way to remember a time when there was no numbness in his heart.

As he raised his head again, determined to look once more out at the gardens and hope to feel something in his heart, he suddenly caught sight of a woman standing in a window on the western wing of the building. She turned her head—her hair was like a river of gold cascading down her back—and their eyes met and locked. He raised a hand to touch the pillar beside him, but he didn't feel it as he took in every detail of her face and the cut of her pale blue gown. She was beautiful. Her eyes were wide and deep, deep blue, and her face was thin with high cheekbones and delicate features. Her throat looked as if it was made of ivory, and her shoulders were as delicate as porcelain, covered in the soft blue of her gown. Yet what really caught his gaze and made him catch his breath was the look in her eyes—one of pain, grief, and an utter, consuming fear. To him she seemed like a bird, caught in some fine, silver netting, longing to be set free.

Then she was gone. He wasn't sure at first how she had disappeared so fast, but in a moment he realized she had simply stepped to the right and been hidden by the wall of the building. His eyes grew large, he blinked, and then he caught his breath in one long, ragged gasp. There was the life he had been hoping to feel once more—it was pounding in his head and pumping up his arms and legs, causing his fingers and toes to tingle. He was suddenly vividly aware of the plant life around him—indeed, of everything around him, yet he didn't realize he was still staring at her window until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"What are you staring so intently at, my lord?" Thailan asked, and Faramir turned quickly to see the young man smiling at him. "Have you seen something at last to draw your attention?"

Faramir grasped the pillar tighter. "There was a lady there—" he pointed to the window and shook his head. "I—she was beautiful."

Thailan looked in some surprise towards the window, wondering that his lord should be so shaken upon seeing a woman. The lord Faramir was a very staid, wise man, and he had seen his share of beauty. But upon seeing which window Faramir indicated, he grinned broadly. "That is the Lady Eowyn of Rohan," he said gallantly. "She is indeed a beauty, from what I have heard and seen."

"Rohan?" Faramir turned toward his servant, once more himself. "How comes a lady of Rohan to be here? And in these Houses?" His sharp eyes looked into Thailan's; the youth shrugged.

"No one says much," he said lightly. "It will only be because they do not know much, for if anything is known, servants will speak of it with one another. All that is known of her, except by a privileged and silent few, is her name and that she rode with the eored from Rohan, in the battle of the Pelennor."

Faramir was amazed and turned his eyes once more to the vacant window. Her expression of utter fear returned to him, and he shook his head. "How odd," he said absently. He raised a hand to rub his shoulder and Thailan touched his arm.

"Shall we return to the House and put a compress on your shoulder?" he asked, still somehow keeping the edge of patronization out of his voice. "It must be paining you."

Faramir nodded, and with one last glance at the window, led the way back to the Houses. His step had grown stronger, and he even had the strength to add some of his usual lightness to his footfalls. He walked with a pronounced limp, caused by the cut on his stomach, but Thailan saw improvement. It did not take them long to reach Faramir's room; Thailan had proven true to his word and made sure Faramir did not walk longer than he was able.

As Thailan was putting the compress on Faramir's shoulder, there was a knock on the door and at Thailan's bidding it opened to reveal Kitha holding a tray with food on it. She smiled at her lord and at Thailan. "Good evening," she said in her soft voice as she set the tray on the table. "Are you feeling any better today, my lord?"

Faramir summoned up a smile for the girl and nodded. "Much better, thank you. The care at these Houses is even better than it is reputed to be." Kitha smiled and nodded her agreement and thanks. Then she bent to gather some discarded dishes and bowls, and Thailan moved to help her. "I'll help you take these to the kitchen," he said in a friendly tone, and they left the room as Faramir began eating.

* * *

_**Notes:** What do you think of Thailan? I also want to hear feedback on my Eowyn. Remember, this isn't an Eowyn story, so don't ride me for not writing about her enough (although I do write pu-lenty about her, believe me). What do you think of my characterization?_


	10. A Window That Does Not Face East

**Notes: **_Thank you all so much for the reviews...I was reminded why I do this, and now I'm even more excited about posting the rest. (I'll try to not make you wait so long again!) Oh, and by the way, I finished the story (except for the epilogue) two days ago, so now you can all be assured that there will be an ending. But not anytime soon. I don't even think we're half way yet._

_Thank you for correcting me...Eowyn **did** have gray eyes, by jove! I shall try to fix that little slip in the rest of the story, but if you see a rogue blue eye, know that it is a mistake. And also, I know Faramir probably didn't see Eowyn before they met, but the Professor doesn't exactly say they didn't...he just said they were surprised. Well, so they are:-) No, really, I was just giving the movie a nod, because I like that scene. And I also love the obscenely short scene in the Houses, too, for all its shortness. His expression is worth a million words._

**Chapter Ten: A Window That Does Not Face East**

The next day a chill wind began to blow, and the short spell of warmth the inhabitants of the Houses of Healing had enjoyed came to an end. Though Thailan could not dissuade Faramir from walking in the gardens again, he did convince him to dress warmly and wear a heavy cloak. Thailan did not accompany him to the garden, for Faramir was now strong enough to walk a greater distance, and Thailan was content with Faramir's promise of resting when he felt the need.

As Thailan watched his charge go, he was struck again with the thought that Faramir was wandering through these days almost aimlessly, as if he was drowning, and the only thing keeping him afloat was his stubborn resolution to heal and be of use again to his city. Thailan knew it was almost impossible for Faramir to have any other reaction to the events that had just happened in his life: his father and brother's deaths, his final stand and the lives of his men it had cost, his recent wounds and unfathomable trip to the world of shadows, and the terrible waiting that affected all of them, but him most of all. How it must hurt him—now the Steward of Gondor, and still captain of his men—to be left behind while the other captains led their men to either victory and renown or glorious deaths. Somehow, Thailan told himself, I must help him find his pride and his will to live again. But how long has it been since he had both or either?

* * *

Outside in the sharp breeze Faramir drew his cloak about him and reflected on the sudden change of weather. He had not dressed a bit too warmly, for there was a bite to the air that seemed to freeze the very blood inside him. He rubbed his gloved hands together, thinking absently of all the times he had kept himself warm and alert in Ithilien when the nights had been so cold he could scarcely breathe. What had he done then? The time seemed to stretch infinitely between now and those days on patrol, but in reality it had been two weeks at the most since he had left the woods of Ithilien.

Now was not the time for reflection or memories. Faramir turned his thoughts purposefully away from pondering everything his mind so passionately cried out to think about, instead intent on focusing on the future. He had been denied to go with the host, that was painfully evident. He had been left here, to recover, to wonder, to rot. They had gone on, and they no doubt had little thought for Minus Tirith or the man who waited anxiously for word of their fate. He, however, had nothing _but_ thoughts for them, he realized ironically.

Well, then let their wonder upon returning be that much greater. He would set his energy and sights upon rebuilding and revitalizing the city. He would work, and build, and order, and they would accomplish as much as they could before the host returned, if ever they did. There was no time to be wasted! He would begin by ordering a report of all able-bodied men be brought to him…

Faramir came to a sharp halt and gasped for breath, his shoulder flooded in pain. He had forgotten his own weakness and had walked too fast; now his breath came painfully and fitfully. He gripped the stones that formed the wall, for his steps had led him up onto the walls, and tried to steady his breathing and calm the pain. With a rueful smile, he acknowledged to himself that he would have to wait a few more days before undertaking his scheme. His body was not yet ready to be pushed to work, no matter how restless his mind was.

"My Lord Faramir?" The voice was not familiar to him, and he turned swiftly to see the Warden of the Houses of Healing standing not ten feet away. Faramir's eyes narrowed in confusion, and he was conscious that his breathing was still somewhat labored. Then, before the Warden could say anything else, Faramir's glance fell on the lady behind the Warden, and his eyes grew wide again.

There she stood—the lady he had seen the day before in her window. She was just as beautiful as before, though now she wore a heavy wool dress and light mantle. Her hair was still unbound, and it draped over her shoulders in such startling gold locks that Faramir could not draw his eyes away for a long moment. His eyes went next to her face, and there he read her shock and wonder, and underneath it the same fear he had seen yesterday. She had obviously not been expecting to see him, and she even looked slightly embarrassed. As the Warden spoke, greeting Faramir and telling him of this lady's wish to see the Steward of the city, he suddenly thought he understood.

It was true the lady's surprise upon seeing him was no less great than his upon seeing her. She had been expecting some older man, much like the Warden, especially since she had heard tales of the stern, rigorous Steward ruling in Gondor. When her eyes fell on Faramir, therefore, she was at once puzzled and embarrassed. Had the old Steward, then, been killed in the battle? Had he gone with the host? By the look of this young man—young! she marveled—he was a warrior himself, and he had some superior wisdom in his eyes. His features were startlingly handsome, and as she gazed at him she saw with a jolt that he bore a strong resemblance to Boromir of Gondor, who had stopped in Edoras on his journey to the land of the elves.

She noticed at once that he was recovering from some wound himself, and that was no doubt why he was in the Houses and had not gone with the host. It must have been a very serious wound, she reasoned, or he could not possibly be excluded from the captains' company. She was beginning to ponder just how ill he might have been when she was brought back to the conversation by the Warden's words and insistence that she had wanted to see the Steward. "Do not mistake his words, my Lord," she said with a slight lift of her chin. "I do not suffer from lack of care, for I have never been treated better than by the healers in these Houses. But I am now on the road to recovery, and I cannot lie idle."

At her words Faramir felt something painful stir in his heart. The way she said _idle_ brought to his mind all the feelings he had recently been enduring, and for a glimpse of a second he was tempted to agree with her. Instead he gave the Warden a significant look and waved him away. The man bowed and turned away, but his eyes gave away how much he had wished to remain and hear what the two said to each other. Faramir was not sorry; the Warden was a kind man, and he had wisdom and discernment, but whatever this woman had to say to him was, he sensed, deeply personal and private, no matter how hard she tried to say it nonchalantly.

"As you can see," Faramir began, leaning against the wall imperceptibly for support, "I too am a prisoner of these Houses, recovering from wounds sustained in battle." At her look of inquisitiveness crossed with annoyance, he hurried on. "I have not yet taken up authority in the city, but if I had still I don't think I would cross the Warden in matters such as these. He knows how far a healing body can be pushed."

The lady's lips pressed together and she drew her cloak tighter about her. Faramir was struck with the way her eyebrows arched together towards her fair hair, causing her face to take on a lofty expression. "And I am supposed to simply lie in sloth?" Her words rang with her disdain of the position she was in and her anger towards herself for not recovering quicker; Faramir felt his spirit kindling with the nearness and similarity of her feelings to his own. He stepped forward slightly, pushing off the wall now that he felt his breath return to normal and his aching wound subside.

"There will be much to occupy us all in the days to come," he said level-headedly, though his own feelings did not agree with his words. "The time spent resting and recovering now will be of great use to everyone in the days to come." _And reflecting_, he almost added, thinking of the painful thoughts he himself could not dispose of. He knew from her expression and words that what she most desired was something to take her mind off the thoughts and feelings pressing down upon her. He knew not what those thoughts and feelings were, but they were probably as unforgiving as his own.

She paused at his words, and her eyes searched his face unashamedly. Something told her that he was a man who was wise beyond his years, and though her eyes told her he was formidable on the field of battle, her heart told her he was gentle and wise in his mannerisms and judgments. She had never met such a man before, and she was struck with wonder. Her wonder, however, was quickly extinguished by bitterness toward all men, and she berated herself inwardly. Yet her true wish, burning in her breast, could not be denied, and she lowered her head so that she did not have to look into his eyes—eyes that would no doubt think her an idiot in a moment—as she said, "But the healers would have me lie abed seven days yet, and my window does not look eastward."

Faramir was startled at the simplicity of her words, and his heart felt her pain even more as he looked upon her bent head and slight shoulders. Her request might have seemed stupid to anyone else, but he understood her perfectly. He felt, just as she did, the dreaded waiting and watching, and the need to be able to look to the east and count the days, hours, and minutes since they went forth. He knew how she must, as he did, try to calculate how many days it would take them to march there, how and what they planned to do when there, and how long it might take a messenger to return to bring tidings to them.

"Your window does not look east?" he repeated, and there was no coddling or patronization in his voice. Indeed, Eowyn looked up at the softness of his voice and the understanding in his words. He smiled at her as he said, "In this I will command the warden, and you shall have a room with a window that looks eastward."

Eowyn was startled at the way his face looked when he smiled, and how every feature changed. It was just a small smile, and she found herself wondering for a split-second how much his face would radiate joy if he smiled—_really_ smiled. Then she chastened herself roughly for her thoughts and bowed her head swiftly to thank him. No smile passed her lips.

Faramir hesitated, thinking upon his next words and the way she would take them. He knew she might think it impertinent and refuse him flatly, but he had to try. The dreadful waiting and watching they were both sentenced to had to have some relief, and he for one would find great comfort in a companion, especially one he felt such sadness and similarity with. "My lady," he said gently, unconsciously balling his left hand into a fist at his side, "we are sentenced to wait here until some word of the host returns to us, be it either good or ill. Why should we not pass the hours together, walking in these gardens? It would ease my care greatly if you would walk with me, from time to time, and speak of your home."

Eowyn's eyebrows rose even higher as she stared at him, disbelieving what she had just heard. Why should he wish to walk with her? She would be a pretty poor companion if only he knew her, she thought with some pleasure. Really, she should just refuse him and return to her room to be alone with her thoughts. _Alone with her thoughts_; she froze at that thought and realized that if she did not take his offer up she would be sentenced to her own company, with no diversion at all to draw her mind away from the feelings that were so painful to her. She looked at him again, and decided that she would rather spend her time walking with a companion far less knowledgeable than him than reflecting alone.

"I am not the companion you desire," she said frankly, "for I am a shield maiden and my hands are rough and my tongue not laced with silver. But I will walk with you, if you so desire, and we will perhaps share some of the burdens of watching and waiting."

Faramir bowed his head in acquiescence and watched as she turned and walked slowly back toward the Houses. She seemed, then, not like a bird as he had previously thought, but like a delicate flower that was being crushed, yet attempting to stay erect. At the last flash of gold as she disappeared inside he turned and walked slowly down the steps—they were still hard for him—and returned to his room.

Kitha and Thailan were stacking and removing dishes as he entered. He smiled at the girl as she left, and Thailan shut the door with a smile of his own. "Are you thoroughly chilled, as I predicted?" he asked as he unclasped the cloak from Faramir's throat. The clasp at his throat was still hard for Faramir to undo without pain, though dressing himself was getting easier.

"It is cold," Faramir agreed. "But I am used to these conditions." Thailan nodded with another grin and laid the cloak over a chair.

"Have something warm," the young man suggested, gesturing to the table where a jug and several cups stood. "Kitha brought that moments before you returned."

Faramir nodded and walked to the table to pour himself a drink. As he raised the cup to his lips he suddenly asked, "Is there no one who can tell me aught of the lady Eowyn?"

Thailan was taken aback at the request, but he crossed his arms as he leaned against the windowsill. "There is one, perhaps," he said slowly. "The hobbit Meriadoc rode with the lady and the eored and was wounded very seriously. He is in these Houses, now."

Faramir set the mug on the table and nodded at his servant. "Send for him, if he is able to come," he said quietly. "I wish to speak with him."

* * *

As Eowyn entered her room she raised her good arm to unclasp the brooch that held her cloak in place. It was good only in the sense that it was better than her other arm—for both of the lady Eowyn's arms had been hurt in battle. Her left arm had been broken, and was mending in a sling at her side, and her right arm was still cold and had very little feeling in it. Eowyn thought with some satisfaction that the Lord Faramir had evidently not seen her arm in the sling, though she was not sure why that pleased her so much.

She threw the cloak over the back of a chair and poured herself a draught of some hot beverage sitting on the table. It was refreshing, she found, being able to think of something other than her own troubles, for now she could ponder the man she had met this afternoon. She was not in the habit of making fun of people, but she was always critical when meeting others. Eowyn had a sharp wit and very quick eyes, so she did not miss much. For instance, she had noticed after just a few moments of their conversation that he had been wounded in the shoulder—an arrow wound, she thought. There was also something about his air that suggested long suffering and a pervading weariness, but she had no way of knowing how that came about.

His manner, she reflected as she seated herself on the corner of the bed, had been pleasing. Her first impressions had remained throughout their conversation, and she thought now that he was a very knowledgeable man, and he had a wisdom and a grace to his carriage that pleased her. His well muscled form and lean body had not gone unnoticed by her frank eye either, for she was used to looking at men of all shapes and sizes, and though he was slighter in build than many of the eored, Eowyn knew enough about physique and seen enough of his reflexes to know that Faramir would not easily be beaten in combat.

He had been good looking, no doubt, but Eowyn dismissed that and thought about his manner. He had been gentle and kind to her, true, but there was such a reserve to his words and emotions that Eowyn thought he must have very staid or shallow emotions—perhaps both. Yet he had wished to walk with her, and if his only flaw was stuffiness and shallow emotions, so be it. She could at least have the pleasure of observing him and marveling at his words, be they idiotic or wise.

The door opened slowly and Eowyn watched as her maidservant entered, bearing an armful of clothes. The plump brunette smiled at her mistress as she threw the gowns onto the bed. "Here we are," she said cheerfully, "some gowns I found that should fit you." She began holding them up and Eowyn saw that they were all very simple in cut and style, and they all looked warm and comfortable. She was grateful for the simplicity, and though their colors were not quite to her taste—they were almost all deep, dark colors—she fingered them gently.

"These will do fine," she said with a nod. "Thank you for finding them, Bithie."

Bithie began folding them carefully and opened a small chest of drawers and inserted them. "Your shoes you already have," she said, "and your cloak. These gowns are to be used only until, of course, the tailors can make you some nicer ones."

Eowyn looked up at her maid and frowned. "These will be fine," she protested. Bithie shook her head.

"No," she said with a shrug, "the warden is very firm upon the fact that your ladyship should have finer things. He makes it very clear that the hospitality of Gondor should extend farther than simply caring for you." She smiled at her lady and put the last dress in the closet. "Therefore a seamstress will be in tomorrow for a fitting, if it pleases your ladyship."

Eowyn saw the futility of trying to protest the gowns and realized it would be easier to simply accept them without complaint. She only hoped they wouldn't be too full of frills and flounces. "Very well," she said, dismissing the topic and turning toward the fireplace. She watched the flames flickering for a long time and listened to Bithie bustling around behind her before saying suddenly, "Bithie, tell me about the lord Faramir."

It was not Eowyn's way to be coy when talking, but still Bithie paused and looked up in surprise. Eowyn's back was turned to her, and the maid hesitated for a minute, wondering if she should inquire as to why Eowyn was asking after him, or how she even knew of his existence. She decided against it. "Well," she began, picking up a pot of salve and a cloth, "he is perhaps the most beloved captain in Minus Tirith. Except for Lord Boromir, that is. Oh, but—" she sighed. "You will have heard about _that_." Bithie came in front of Eowyn and knelt down to take her right arm in her hands; she began rubbing it briskly with the cloth and salve. "All these captains congregating in this city," she said with a shrug of her shoulder, "and most of them I've never heard of before. But Lord Faramir, why he was born and bred in this city. Minus Tirith certainly never had a fiercer protector than Lord Faramir, not even Lord Boromir."

Eowyn was intrigued by Bithie's words, and she goaded the maid on. "Who are his parents? And why is he here?"

Bithie gave Eowyn a strange look. "Why, Lord Denethor and Lady Finduilas herself, bless her beloved soul. Lady Finduilas has been dead these thirty years, but lord Denethor…" she trailed off and looked at the floor. "Has your ladyship not heard, then?"

Eowyn shook her head and watched as the maidservant twisted her lips uncomfortably. "Well," Bithie began again, "Lord Faramir was wounded by an arrow in the last stand he made, just before Dol Amroth arrived. They say he was there until the last, until he was struck down by the Harad dart. His uncle, Prince Imrahil, found him and brought him back, but by the time he arrived here he was wandering in a fever, and nothing we could do would bring him out. We believed for a time that the arrow must have come from the shadows above, but the man who healed him—Lord Aragorn, some say his name was—insisted the fever came only from the black breath, weariness, and grief over his father." Bithie shook her head sadly. "He was weary, alright, and he had endured quite a deal of blackness and shadow in the days leading up to that day. He wandered for hours before Lord Aragorn healed him, and he was almost dead when he was brought back from the shadow. We owe a great debt to that man, whoever he may be, for he saved one of Gondor's most faithful and steadfast sons. And it was no wonder he was so far gone before he was healed, for anyone who had endured his father's—"

Bithie stopped abruptly and her cheeks flushed. Eowyn had never before been so glad to have such a loquacious servant, and she leaned forward. "What?" she asked. "What happened?"

Bithie looked up into Eowyn's face and hesitated. "The Lord Faramir," she began shortly, "has never had a good relationship with his father. Well, they never saw eye to eye on many points, and while Faramir would never cross his lord and father outright, he held to his opinions very firmly. They were both stubborn, both of them. It was Lord Denethor who sent Faramir out again to the battlefield, though it seemed to everyone it was foolishness. And when they brought his son back to him, wounded…well, they say he went mad."

"Mad?" Eowyn was more intrigued than she had been in a long time.

"Mad—crazy. He took him up on a bier and brought him to Rath Dinen, the silent street. There he entered the House of the Dead and built a pyre to burn both his son and himself."

Eowyn was horrified and she drew away slightly with an expression that conveyed her feelings. "Burn?" she echoed. Bithie nodded.

"Faramir was saved at the last minute by Mithrandir and a halfling named Peregrin," Bithie went on, "and brought back here. It was then that we realized we would lose him, and we would have had the Lord Aragorn not come and saved him. His father, the Lord Denethor, was killed in the fire."

The maid stood and returned the pot of salve and the cloth to the table. Eowyn stared into the fire again, mulling over the news she had just heard. So this man had had a life of hardship too, it seemed. He had so recently lost a brother and father that Eowyn was shocked at his calm conversation this afternoon, and she voiced her thoughts aloud. "He seemed so calm this afternoon, not at all like a man who had just lost a dear brother and father."

Bithie crossed the room and put her hand on Eowyn's shoulder. "Oh, miss, he is hurting. I do not know him, but I know enough about him, him having, as I said, grown up in and served this city all his life, to know that he doesn't show his emotions like most people. Some say it's because of his father, and that _he _forced him to be so staid, but that I do not know." Bithie paused and then asked, "Did you, then, meet him this afternoon?"

Eowyn nodded mutely. She fingered the sling on her arm as she said, "He asked me to walk with him again."

Bithie's face lit up. "Oh!" she cried, "how wonderful! He's such a gentleman, he is. You will like him, I promise you will. But—" he face suddenly turned worried, "you must _not_ tell him anything about his father and the pyre. He will know, of course, that his father is dead, but you must not breathe a word about his madness. Faramir loved his father very dearly, and it would absolutely crush him, especially now, while his body is still so weak."

Eowyn promised absently that she would hold her tongue and continued to look into the fire, again thinking over what she had learned. Eventually Bithie convinced her to eat a morsel, and then she retired to bed, again at Bithie's bidding. Her thoughts, however, for the first time since she had awoken in the Houses, dwelled the entire evening on someone other than herself.

* * *

**Notes: **_I suppose I should really have asked what you think of my Eowyn after **this** chapter, since she had about a three second part in the last chapter. So...what do you think? _

_Next chapter...Eowyn and Faramir talk more; Faramir finds out about you-know-what..._


	11. Stifled

**Notes:** _Thank you, Steelelf, for pointing that out...by jove it IS Minas Tirith, and not Minus Tirith. Sorry about that. I suppose my brains starts to wander late at night... _

_I just want to warn you all that, while I don't think this story is actually AU at any particular point, I flirt shamelessly with the line between canon and AU. I know there will be some of you who say, 'Well, she didn't say that,' or 'Hello? He did this!' The truth is, I know exactly what they did or did not do, having read their chapter at least twenty times, but I chose in some circumstances to ignore that and do my own thing. So, just to warn you, this story isn't strictly canonical. But I have tried to stay true to the characters, so if you think I'm getting off, let me know straightaway. :-)_

**Chapter Eleven: Stifled**

The next morning Eowyn woke early with an odd sense of excitement. It took her a full minute to realize that what she was so eager about was the fact that she was to walk with Lord Faramir in the gardens this morning, and at first she was disgusted with herself. She lay in bed, berating herself for being so ridiculously excited about seeing a simple man, but gradually she gave herself more grace. After all, he was a companion, however poor of one he might turn out to be. She had not had a conversation with an equal to herself for quite some time…not since before she had set out for the battle. It had been even longer since she had had someone besides her brother, cousin or uncle to speak with, unless she counted Aragorn…

Eowyn sat up swiftly and threw the covers off of her legs. This would not do—there would be no dwelling on him. _He_ was forever in her past, and no matter how much she still loved him, she would not allow herself to think of him. He did not want her, that was all. It was enough. She waited until after breakfast had gone by to think about when she should go outside, and it was then she realized they had never set a time. She might go out now and not see him until evening, or he might be out there now, waiting for her to come. She almost threw on her cloak and hurried out, but she staid herself and sat in her room instead. There was no reason to show unnatural haste—if he was waiting, why he could just wait.

By mid morning she was having doubts about his seriousness. Why should he want to walk with _her_, a shield maiden from Rohan who, he no doubt thought, had run away and joined the war on an impulse? His words had to have been simple politeness. But then again, he could have been polite in many ways without requesting her to walk with him. 'It would ease my care greatly if you would walk with me, from time to time, and speak of your home.' Those had been his exact words. What else could he possibly mean than the truth? He had had no stuffiness or false air to his manner, and she had no reason to disbelieve him. With a huff of uncertainty she threw her cloak on and left her room.

It was even colder than the day before, and Eowyn shivered slightly as she walked toward the walls where she had seen him before. Her motive was two-fold; in the first place, it was the place they had met before, so it would be a natural place to assume a meeting. Also, it was high above the rest of the garden and visible if one were looking for someone. Second, she could pass the time of uncertain waiting by looking out over the Pelennor towards the east.

She had not long to wait. Before five minutes had passed, and she was deep in contemplation about the maneuvers of the troops, she felt someone come up beside her and turned with a startled gasp. The Lord Faramir stepped back apologetically and smiled at her. "Forgive me if I startled you," he said in greeting, "I have a habit of walking lightly, and I sometimes forget that it…startles people."

Eowyn took a deep breath and shrugged. "I confess I am accustomed to a frank step, but there is no harm done." She bowed her head slightly. "Good morning, my Lord."

"Good morning to you as well, my Lady," Faramir said, stepping up to the wall again. "What has caught your attention?"

Eowyn shrugged again. "I am fascinated by what the Captains of the West have done, and though none of them chose to honor me with an account of their strategy, I find it very appealing to guess." There was great bitterness in her words, but Eowyn did nothing to hide it.

Faramir glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes and said, leaning against the stonework, "They are buying time for the Halflings, Frodo and Sam. I believe their mission and thought is that if they can draw the Lord of Shadow's attention away from Mount Doom the Halflings will have a better chance of survival, and ultimately accomplish their mission."

Eowyn gazed at him in astonishment, then recovered and looked back out over the plains. "And how do they know that the hobbits have not yet perished?"

Faramir shifted and said, "There would most likely be very clear signs, did the dark Lord have the weapon in his possession. Thus far, the darkness is progressing steadily, but not at the rate it would if the dark Lord had his tool of evil."

Eowyn nodded and said no more on the subject, for though her heart had long been given to darker thoughts, it was still hard to speak of the darkness descending on Middle Earth, especially now, in Minas Tirith, where she could do nothing. She thought she had sensed some of that emotion in Faramir's voice, though his tone had mostly consisted of simple fact and trust, as if he had been talking with one of his lieutenants. Her appreciation for him rose one step, and she turned and began walking.

He fell into step with her, but she soon realized that she was walking too fast for him and he was having difficulty keeping up. Her wounds had been only to her arms, and though she was generally weaker than usual, she was fast regaining her former strength. His recovery, she could tell, was progressing slower, probably because of the more serious nature of his wounds. With some bitterness she thought of how had he sustained only her wounds, he might have been permitted to leave the Houses and travel to the Black Gate with the host. She, however, was forced to remain here by a caring but overbearing brother. Nonetheless, in accordance with her realization, she slowed her steps and they walked silently on.

"Minas Tirith seems to be a lovely city," she said finally, "though I confess I have seen little of it."

Faramir nodded. "She has her moments of glory—when the sun is shining off her white marble spires and her banners are waving in the wind…" he broke off and turned his face away, and she wondered at what in his words could cause his sudden grief. Shortly, he shook his head and went on, "But there is much work to be done if she is to once more be as beautiful as she was before this war."

Eowyn crossed her arms across her chest and hugged herself, for the wind was biting. "I believe I was here once, when I was very young. But that was before I can remember much. My brother Eomer might, perhaps, remember more."

Faramir looked down at her for a moment, trying to stretch his own memory back far enough to remember her, but he couldn't. Either he had been away or had for some reason not retained the memory. Boromir would no doubt remember the visit, for Boromir's memory was perfect. Faramir shied away from the thought before he could feel the familiar sting and said, "I'm afraid I have never been to Edoras, or even Rohan, in my life. I hear it has a wild, untamed beauty that clears the mind and frees the spirit."

Eowyn looked at him suddenly in astonishment, for his words brought back to her the exact emotions her country stirred in her heart. It was not so much the words he spoke, but the passion and understanding with which he spoke them that made her breath catch at the thought of the beauty of her homeland. She looked away quickly, afraid and ashamed of the emotions he had so inadvertently awoken. "Yes," she said cautiously, "it is indeed breathtaking. Who told you of it in such vivid detail?"

"Boromir visited once," Faramir said, unable to keep the familiar edge out of his voice, though Eowyn found it difficult to decide if it was pain or anger, "and he told me of it briefly. Most of what I know I learned from Mithrandir, for he used to talk with me for hours and feed my curiosity of lands beyond our borders." Faramir gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. "I used to wish I could travel to every land in Middle Earth." He didn't elaborate.

Eowyn's brow furrowed. "Mithrandir?" she asked in confusion.

"Likely you know him by Gandalf the Gray, or one of his other guises," Faramir said with a wave of his good arm. At her look of understanding he smiled briefly. "He has many faces on this earth, or so I am led to believe."

Eowyn nodded, but the thought of Gandalf brought her too close to thoughts of his companions, and she could not find it in herself to answer. Instead she walked on with a quickened pace, her head bowed in reflection. She might have walked a very long time, steeped in her own thoughts, had Faramir's voice not cut through her reverie.

"Perhaps this may seem poorly timed," he said with another self-conscious smile, "but would you consider resting for a moment on a bench?"

Eowyn's cheeks flushed and she fought against the alien feeling of embarrassment. "Forgive me," she said, "I didn't realize I was going too fast." It was Faramir's turn to flush, at that, and Eowyn's embarrassment grew as she realized he was not used to being seen as weak. She swiftly sat down in silence, and for a time neither said anything. She struggled with her emotions, for no man had made her feel embarrassed for quite some time, not even… And Faramir had done it so quickly and effortlessly.

Faramir felt the minutes weigh on him and was acutely aware of the awkwardness of their conversation so far. It seemed that everything they spoke of was uncomfortable for the other in some way, and Faramir suddenly felt his own ignorance. He knew nothing of who Eowyn was, what she liked, and what would make her uncomfortable. Was there any way of finding out without stepping on her toes? He didn't realize that Eowyn was wondering the same thing. How can I possibly know what to talk with him about? she wondered desperately. This was a mistake. We should just keep to our rooms and not try to break down barriers that have been erected over years of hardship. But when they stood to reenter the Houses, both Faramir and Eowyn felt a yearning to see the other again, if only to think of something other than their own problems. If only to see a face that was neither a worried servant or their own. Faramir was the first to speak.

"Will you meet me here again tomorrow?" he asked suddenly, purposefully ignoring the awkwardness of the moment. "I would like to walk again."

Eowyn was alternately relieved and unsure. He obviously felt her same need of distraction, else he would not have subjected himself to the same insecurity once more. She only hesitated slightly before replying, "Yes, of course. Same time?"

"I have all day," Faramir nodded, and Eowyn saw a tiny glimpse of something warm and welcoming in his words, as if he really was capable of laughter and joy. But then she was staring again into his drawn face, and she simply nodded. "Until then," she said. Her thin cloak and wool dress swished gently as she turned away, and Faramir watched her thin shoulders round the corner before turning away. Until then.

* * *

Faramir hadn't realized what "Until then," really meant. As soon as he entered his room again he was beset by thoughts that had been, if only slightly, kept at bay by the distraction of the White Lady of Rohan. He twisted his gloves off, tossed them on the table and poured himself a glass of cool water. He gulped it down swiftly, then filled another and gulped it, too. His hand tightened around the cup until his knuckles whitened before he set it down and removed his cloak.

It was warm in the room, for the fire was burning brightly in the hearth. Faramir's mind only just touched on the thought that a servant—perhaps Kitha or Thailan—must have just been in the room to stoke the fire. Faramir rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and wiped the back of his arm across his face before looking down at his hands. The spiraling burn mark on his arm, which stopped just before the more tender skin on his palm, immediately caught his attention, and he sank down on the bed with a groan.

He had no explanation for the marks. His mind had gone over it time and again, suggesting to him that perhaps there had been flames on the battlefield that had licked at him before Imrahil rescued him; perhaps in his fever he had been convulsive and had rolled into a fireplace before the healers had time to stop him. Both scenarios were certainly possible. But Faramir knew neither was true. He knew that, had it been simply from the battlefield or fevered wanderings, the healers would have had no problem telling him. There was no explanation for the averted eyes and pointed redirection of questions he put to them. I will _not_ think of it! he thought resolutely. I have no way of knowing, until someone tells me. But in his heart Faramir knew he _would_ think of it. He would be haunted by it, just as he had been ever since he had awoken in these Houses. And Faramir knew in his soul that however he had received the nasty burns was closely connected with his Father's death. He didn't know how he knew, he just did.

When Aragorn had told him, the fact that his Father had died had been enough. But now, a few days later, his very being was consumed with questions as to _how_ Denethor had died. Why Damla or Thailan would not tell him was all too clear to Faramir's sharp and seldom deceived mind—his death had been dishonorable, unfortunate, perhaps even horrific. In the dark hours of the night and early morning of the past two days Faramir's mind had conjured up every possible way of death. He had imagined his father dying in so many different ways, and with so many different attitudes, that his mind reeled from his thoughts. As much as he hoped none of his ideas were correct, Faramir was not foolish enough to believe his father had died honorably.

Yet Faramir knew anything would be better than this terrible, terrible unrest. He had to know how his father had died, just as he had had to know how Boromir died. Granted the two Halflings had not known the whole story, but he had been able to draw quite a few conclusions from their words. He was, after all, not a simpleton or a dreamer. As his thoughts turned to Boromir he lowered his head into his hands and gave another groan. For the past few weeks he had had a terrible burden upon his heart—a burden of grief that could not be addressed. He had not let himself grieve for Boromir, for the times had been dire and his men needed him—all of him. But here, in the Houses, where his only job was to recover, he found the grief so consuming it welled up inside and seemed to be fighting to get out. More than once he felt his throat closing as the sobs of aching pain rose up, but he bit them down until late at night, when he let the sobs come.

He was ashamed of his pain. He was not ashamed of grieving for Boromir, for there was nothing wrong with sorrow over a beloved friend and brother's death. But he was ashamed of the overwhelming pain that he felt, and the deep, aching loss. At times he felt like he didn't know what to do with the pain that he kept inside, and he was afraid it would burst out and he would be consumed. If only he had some work to do…some plans to make so that he could forget about it, so that he could push it away to a corner of his mind. Not the grief, no—the time for grieving was still right—but the utter blind hurt. And deeper still, there was shame.

Faramir knew, for he saw into many men's hearts, his own notwithstanding, that his shame was what made it all so terrible. The shame of Boromir's death ate at him. He had loved Boromir, for they had been as close as brothers could be. Boromir had been his champion since he was little, his friend as long as he could remember, and the only man he trusted with all his heart. Perhaps some would have called Faramir brave or wise to withstand the temptation of the Ring, but the truth was that Faramir had been scared to death of it, for he knew what his brother had been. Boromir had been reckless, at times, it was true. He had been blunt very often, and his mind was not always on the task at hand. But there was no doubting Boromir's loyalty and goodness. Faramir had seen sides of Boromir that no one knew existed, and there was nothing Faramir had thought Boromir less capable of than trying to harm anything that was not superior to his own strength. The news of Boromir's assault on Frodo had left a gaping hole in Faramir's heart that was formed by a shattered image of the one person he loved best.

Faramir's shame ran deeper than Boromir's death. He was ashamed of his father, too, and the way he had ordered Minus Tirith in her ultimate test. Faramir had learned enough about the time after he was wounded to realize that Imrahil, Mithrandir, and Aragorn had taken over the leadership, and Faramir wasn't sure if it had been before or after Denethor had died. The shame of the possible ways Denethor might have met his end ate at Faramir's mind and heart. The deepest level of shame, however, was on his own account. It wasn't just the shame of this final battle and his small part in it that hurt him. After all, he didn't want to win glory and honor as much as he wished to see his city safe. It was his whole life that seemed to loom before him in uselessness and waste. What had he really done to help anyone? The people of the city, in their blind love and service, could say what they wanted. But he was haunted by his father's words to him before he left, expressing the wish that Boromir had lived and he had died in his stead. The words had cut into him deeper than any his father had said before, because Faramir knew they were true. He knew Denethor had meant every word of it, and if he had been master of life and death, he would have exchanged sons in an instant. Now that Faramir thought about that, he realized how terrible that statement was. Denethor preferred Boromir's thoughts over Faramir's. He liked his words better; he saw greater good in Boromir's heart than in Faramir's. He loved him so much better than Faramir that we was willing to sacrifice his one son for the other.

Faramir was unaware that his breathing had grown labored until he felt the blood pounding in his head and a sharp pain in his shoulder. He sat up straight and rubbed the side of his head with a sweaty palm, forcing himself to breathe slowly. Going into a fit would help nothing at all. With a monumental effort, Faramir made his thoughts slow and focus on one thing: his ignorance of his father's death had to end, and end tonight. When Thailan came with his evening meal, he would make the young man tell him.

* * *

Thailan pushed the door open with his back, entering the room backwards with his hands full. The tray before him held soft, wheat bread, steaming broth, and a jug of milk. Thailan had not the least idea how the cooks had come up with milk in a city that had been ravaged by war, but as he had entered the kitchen to take the tray up three of the cooks had glanced up and beamed at him. Thailan could only guess at how proud they must be of themselves, and how much good they expected the milk to do in the healing process.

Faramir was sitting in a chair by the fire, leaning his forehead against his hands, his eyes closed. Thailan set the tray on the table and hesitated, unsure if Faramir was asleep or not. His wondering was over, however, as Faramir spoke without opening his eyes. "I am not very hungry this evening," he said softly. Thailan sensed immediately the extra reserve in his tone, and his evident unrest. But he thought of the faces of the cooks and how they would feel if he brought the tray back untouched.

"The cooks sent along a special drink, tonight," Thailan smiled. "They would be greatly disappointed if you sent it back without drinking at least some. You needn't eat anything, if you don't want to."

Faramir's eyes opened and fixed on the younger man, but he didn't move anything else. His silence encouraged Thailan, and he poured a mug of milk for Faramir. As he brought it to Faramir and handed it to him his mouth ran quickly. "After all, it will do you good, my Lord. I haven't the faintest notion of where the cooks came by milk in this city, but somehow they did, and they are very pleased with themselves. Drink it, if not for your own good, for them."

Faramir glanced down at the creamy white liquid and then back up at his servant. Thailan saw in his eyes that he really didn't want the milk, but he brought the mug to his lips anyway. Faramir was never one to disappoint anyone's good wishes and hopes. When he had drained the cup he handed it back to Thailan, and the lad turned back to the tray. "Are you sure you wouldn't like a little something? This bread was baked fresh not three hours ago, and it practically melts in your mouth. The broth is made from—"

"Thailan," Faramir said, putting his head back into his hands and leaning forward, "stop."

The words died in Thailan's throat as he looked up at Faramir and saw the piercing emotions radiating from the man. He looked toward the tray again, then toward Faramir, and stood helplessly, wondering what to do or say. For once, he could think of nothing.

He didn't need to think of anything, for after a moment's pause Faramir went on, his voice slightly muffled through his hands. "It is four days since the men left for the east, and three days from then that the war was won and I awoke in these houses. My body was injured and broken in many ways, it's true, but my mind has remained the same, and so I am not blind to the whispers in the corridors and the looks on the faces of others. I have not missed the burn marks on my own body. I know my father is dead, and now I am asking you to tell me how he died."

Thailan swallowed nervously and searched the room futilely for help. "My lord," he began, "please do not ask that of me. Others wiser than I have said it would be good to refrain from telling your Lordship, and I cannot—"

"He was my father." There was no sorrow in the words, or at least not on the surface. Thailan could only detect coldness and a bitter resolution. "You do not know what it is like to be in ignorance of how my own father met his end. I ask you once again: tell me how Denethor died."

"My Lord," Thailan began in a consoling tone, "Perhaps you should stay quiet and—"

"No!" Faramir launched himself out of the chair, and the sudden movement after so long in the same position startled Thailan. But Faramir was holding Thailan by the shirt before the young man had time to follow his actions, and Thailan saw closely the determination and desperation in Faramir's eyes. "No!" Faramir repeated, his words uttered harshly. "I will not wait any longer. I will know the truth, I will know it now, and I will stop being treated like a weakling who cannot stomach what happened. I may have been wounded and out of the battle while wandering in a fever, but you _will_ remember that I fought long years to see this city free. If you think news such as this will crush me, you have no understanding of me. Now tell me!" Faramir let go of Thailan as he uttered his last words, but his eyes rested on the lad like burning cinders.

Thailan could not speak for a long moment, and Faramir seemed to realize that. When at last Thailan found his voice, he could think of no better or more acceptable way of telling Faramir than by simply blurting it out. "He died in a fire," Thailan said.

Faramir didn't seem to be surprised, no doubt because of the burn marks on his skin. "A fire," he repeated grimly. "During the battle?"

Thailan hesitated. "It was during the battle," he said, knowing that there was no way he could lie to the Steward of Gondor, "but it was not where the battle raged. He—Lord Denethor built a pyre in the hallows of Rath Dinen to burn himself."

Faramir did not move a muscle, but Thailan could see the pain and bewilderment written on his face nonetheless. Again, however, there was not much surprise on Faramir's face, and Thailan knew he had been pondering worse scenarios. "He was not himself, at the end," Thailan offered regretfully, and the young man really did feel regret and grief upon thinking of the late Steward. "He did not know what he did."

Faramir nodded silently, but as Thailan brushed past him toward the door, he caught his arm. "There is more," Faramir said quietly. "Tell me all of it. Tell me what my part was. I dreamed of fire and wood when I lay in fever."

Thailan's heart hurt as he looked into Faramir's eyes—eyes that he knew would soon be rife with pain. "My Lord," he said, "he was not himself at the end." He took a deep breath and said, looking past Faramir's head, "He wanted to be near you, and spare you from the aftermath of the battle. He was convinced the enemy would prevail, and they would devise great tortures for you. For everyone."

Thailan stopped, and he saw in Faramir's eyes that he was spared of actually saying the words, for Faramir knew. His quick mind had connected the information and now he looked at Thailan in utter shock. This, Thailan knew, he had not expected, not in all his worst nightmares. The full weight of what Denethor had tried to do, and what it must mean to a man already burdened with a relationship with his father that was not good came upon Thailan, and he saw it reflected in Faramir's wide eyes.

It was only an instant until Faramir recovered himself enough to say, "Leave me."

Thailan's heart was in his toes. He had grown to like this captain, and his last wish had been to cause him grief. He had never thought it would be _he_ that would tell him about his father's death. Damla, perhaps, or maybe Mithrandir or Imrahil of Dol Amroth if they came back. But he had done a shameful job with such a delicate subject. "My Lord," he began, but Faramir turned his back to him abruptly.

"Leave me," he repeated, and the quality in his voice told Thailan that he had better leave soon or risk worse damage. Thailan was not a fool, so he turned toward the door and left quickly. Outside he ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. Perfect Thailan, he thought to himself. You have managed to take a delicate and painful issue and make it a disaster. How it could have been told differently, he wasn't sure, but he knew should have found a way.

In the room Faramir stared at the wall; the only body part moving was his hand, clenching and re-clenching at his side. Suddenly, he doubled over, clutching his stomach as if in intense pain, his face contorting into a scream of agony, but no sound came from him, and he screamed silently until his breath was spent and he fell to his knees, still hugging his arms to himself. The floor was cold and hard, made from stones that were carefully swept and tidy, but as icy as Faramir's numb fingers, and as rough as the tears that streamed down his cheeks. He didn't even realize he was huddled on the floor until the early hours of the morning, when the stars were setting and utter blackness was upon the earth.

* * *

**Notes:** _The next chapter is one of my favorites, because in it Faramir gets to be painfully honest (yay!), and Eowyn shows that tenacious, impulsive side of her character. Stay tuned!_


	12. Honest Truth

**Notes:** _This chapter is sort of...different. I confess I'm a little nervous at posting it, but I hope you will all keep open minds. I think I rewrote it at least five times, because I just felt I wasn't getting Eowyn right. (Faramir, on the other hand, I felt good about from the first draft.)_

_Let me know what you think!

* * *

_

**Chapter Twelve: Honest Truth**

Eowyn looked behind her as she slipped out the door and hurried down the hallway. If Bithie knew what she was up to, she would have a heart attack or a conniption. Or maybe she would put her hands on her hips and her eyes would crinkle up, like they did when she was worried or upset, and she would sigh in horror and helplessness. In any case, she would not be happy to know that Eowyn was escaping the confines of her room in the blackest part of the night.

Eowyn wasn't sure where she was going, but she knew she had to get out. Escape had been contemplated, and she had even thought of finding a horse and going after the host, but after the initial pleasure of the thought, Eowyn dismissed it. It would be easy enough to get out of the Houses, but finding a horse and tacking it would be difficult without waking the household. There were no horses here that knew her. Besides, there were the gates and sentries to think of, and they would surely not let her escape. And if she somehow managed to get past all of that and actually catch up to and find the host, would her brother and Lord Aragorn not simply send her back home in disgrace?

So as of now she was simply wandering, through the silent halls, out the door (which did not creak as much as she expected it to) and into the garden. The air hitting her face was refreshingly cool, but it had lost its chill; the wind that brushed against her was soft and had lost the bite it had carried earlier. She looked around at the silent, black shapes and recognized bushes and trees from earlier that day. The wall, she thought to herself—I want to look out over the city. She turned toward the wall looming above the garden, shying away from the black shapes of trees and bushes as she went. She did not think about them, but if she had she would have been disgusted with herself for allowing such fear.

The steps were steep, but she enjoyed the climb, made as it was in the darkness. When she reached the top she paused to catch her breath and stare out over the sleeping city. Other than a few lights still burning in taverns here and there, there was no light in the city, and a chill ran down Eowyn's spine. I wonder who else is awake, she thought. Men who are up to no good, no doubt. But I am safe in here. For the first time, Eowyn felt grateful to be allowed to sojourn in the Houses of Healing until her brother returned. She knew that in the morning and the days to come she would wish she was not shuttered up in these buildings, but at that moment she felt remarkably peaceful. More peaceful, in fact, than she had in weeks.

She was startled by a sudden movement to her left and she looked to see who was there. As her eyes fell on the shape of a man she felt a pang of fear, but he made no menacing moves. Indeed, he did not even seem to notice her. Her first thought was to wonder why he, too, was out under the black sky, but she knew he must be an inhabitant of the Houses as well who had needed a little time to think. She turned her head back to the city, but something drew her to him, and though she felt foolish and a little frightened, she stepped closer.

"Do you seek solitude too?" she asked, and as her voice broke the heavy stillness he jerked to look at her. To her surprise she recognized the Lord Faramir, although there was something about him that seemed different. It was hard to tell in the dark. "Lord Faramir?" she asked, when he said nothing.

Faramir drew away quickly, still without saying anything. He was startled upon seeing her so suddenly, but he knew she must have been there and he had not noticed her. He had been occupied with his own thoughts, and that was how he wanted to remain. "Lady Eowyn," was all he said, "Forgive me." He turned and began walking away slowly, knowing that his reply had been very curt, but not having anything left inside to be cordial with.

Somehow Eowyn knew. Something has happened to him, she thought instantly, something even worse than before. She had no idea what it might be, but she knew it was crushing him. She fell into step behind him, the persistent side of her personality coming out. "Will you not walk with me, my Lord?" she called softly. Faramir paused and turned to face her.

"I have not the ability to be polite or cordial now, Lady Eowyn," he said quietly. "Pray leave me and seek better company."

Eowyn was startled by his honesty, but she took heart instead of being scared away. "I have never in my life been cordial or polite company," she said, deciding to be equally blunt, "but I can see that you are troubled. They say a trouble shared is a trouble eased."

Faramir had no heart to fight her, so he nodded, hoping that she would not urge him to talk and would soon go away. In the first instance he was right, for they stood silently side by side for a long time, but she did not go away. As the minutes passed she didn't feel like she needed to say anything at all, and she marveled at how peaceful she felt, even as she knew the man beside her must be in deep unrest. She couldn't imagine what had caused this sudden change of emotion, for she had thought he knew about his father's death. But perhaps he hadn't know _how_ he had died, and what he had tried to do. Well at least I know what the issue is, she thought. At least I'm not in the dark here.

Finally she said, leaning against the wall and smiling at him, "Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?" She knew her words would annoy him, but she also knew that she had to at least try to make him talk. She had experience with keeping emotions bottled up and knew that it did no good, if there was someone who was indifferent enough not to be hurt by the emotions that needed to be shared. Eowyn was indifferent enough.

Faramir shook his head mutely. Normally Eowyn would not have been persistent and would have left it at that, but she felt in her soul that tonight was an exception; tonight she needed to be tenacious. "It has never been easy for me to share my troubles," she said, "but when I do my burden is eased quite a lot. At first, when I begin to talk, I feel I would rather do anything than speak, but gradually it begins to feel very good, and after I have spoken my heart is lighter." Faramir was silent, staring out over the city. Eowyn looked up into his still face and thought about how she did not know him at all, but she wanted to help him. Why it was so important to her, she knew not, but it was. She looked away and asked, "It is your father, isn't it."

Faramir's head jerked toward hers involuntarily, and as she uttered the word 'father' his throat closed up and he struggled against the tears that threatened to fall. He despised his weakness, especially in the presence of the Lady Eowyn, and he bit the sobs back ruthlessly. She wouldn't understand if he spoke to her—she could never, not in a million years know what he was going through. She was very kind to wish to help him, but he did not need her pity.

Eowyn knew what he was thinking, and she realized that unless she spoke first, he never would. She took a deep breath and began to speak, talking of her father and mother's deaths and the long years of pain. She spoke of how her heart had ached so fiercely at times that she thought it would be torn right out of her body, but she despised talking with other people. As she talked, she marveled at how it was so easy for her to talk with him, and yet she closed her heart to her own words. Her words were true, but she turned her thoughts from the emotions that ran so deep—how she grew to have a hate for other people's pity, and to desire death above life.

"When my cousin died I felt as if a piece of myself died, too," she said softly, rubbing her hands over the stones. "My brother was banished later that day, after I saw him beaten for doing nothing worse than loving my cousin and uncle and wishing to see my uncle restored to his rightful self. The days between his banishment and Mithrandir's coming were the darkest days I can remember—far darker than those after my parents died." Eowyn shivered at the memory and shook her head. "I felt despair creeping in upon me, darkness in every corner I looked at. I would go outside and stand on the wall, staring to the plains in the vain hope of something…anything."

She stopped, shaking her head again as her words ran dry. The next part was harder, and she was not prepared to speak of it yet, not even to help this man. Especially to help this man, she thought, though she didn't know why. She glanced toward Faramir and saw his head bowed into his hands; she reached out a hand and touched his arm. He jerked at her touch.

"I don't know your story," she said, "though I know some of it. I know your brother was killed, and your father was killed just recently. It must seem that before you finished grieving for Lord Boromir, you were forced to grieve for your father."

"I never grieved for Boromir." Faramir's words were very quiet, and Eowyn was startled to hear his voice after listening to her own for so long. He paused, and after a while said, "We were in the midst of the war, and my men needed a captain who was not hampered by grief."

Eowyn nodded, though she knew he couldn't see her. "It must have been very painful to keep it inside for so long." Faramir laughed softly, and she was surprised at first, until she realized that his laughter was hard and mirthless. "I have not faced it yet," he said. "I am afraid that if I open that cask it will flood and overrun me."

Eowyn pulled her cloak tighter about herself, suddenly feeling chilled. What she had neglected to mention in her narrative was that she, too, had not yet grieved for her cousin or uncle, who had just died in the battle. She too was afraid that the grief would eat her alive. "My—my uncle perished in the battle," she said around a thick tongue. "Our situations are very similar, are they not?"

"No!" Faramir pushed himself back from the stone wall and whirled to face the sleeping Houses. "Thank you for trying, Lady Eowyn, but we are not similar at all." He began to walk swiftly away from her, down the wall toward the stairway. She hesitated, then hurried after him.

"We were both wounded," she said, "we have both suffered deaths and failure. We have both—"

"We were wounded, yes," he cut in, turning back toward her at the top of the stairs. "But that is where it ends. Don't fool yourself, my Lady, I am not the high and puissant Steward you think I am. Do you want the truth?" he grinned mirthlessly. "Of course you do…everyone wants the truth from me, and until now I have been too blinded to give it. Well now you will have it, and welcome. Welcome if you will only leave me _alone_ when I am done." He stopped and stared at her, but she made no motion. He took that as an agreement.

"The truth, Lady, is that I was wounded failing in my mission. You were wounded after slaying the Dark Lord's servant. Your uncle died fighting the mumakil and defending a city not even his own. Countless other men were wounded and died in honor for helping bring about a great victory for the men of the West. I was wounded on a suicide mission, useless except to kill men needlessly and cost time and effort. My uncle risked his life and sacrificed those of many of his men to rescue me, and virtually none of my men were saved. None but I, worthless as I am.

"My father died, as you know. Perhaps you know how he died? He built himself a pyre to commit suicide, and because he failed in sacrificing my life to Gondor, he tried to sacrifice my life with his own. That is how I received these—" he pulled up his sleeve abruptly, and Eowyn could not contain a soft gasp at the horrible burns. "Yes, terrible, aren't they? But I didn't die, obviously. Men sacrificed other men's lives to save me from my father, and I was taken to these Houses and healed. I wish that they had left me there and I had perished in the flames. You are shocked, no doubt, but you asked for the truth, and here it is.

"Yet…yet I do grieve for my father. You won't understand how I could possibly grieve for a man who tried to murder me and told me he wished I had died in my brother's place, but I do. I don't understand either. I am filled with shame, and fear, and anger, and grief. That is the truth." He turned his head away and swallowed. "Is that sufficient, Lady Eowyn? Is there anything else you want to know?"

Eowyn's words dried up as she saw the depth of his grief and she shook her head numbly. What have I asked for? She wondered. What have I pushed him to speak of? He wasn't ready, and I have made the hurt worse. She felt the darkness press on her, and she needed to say something. "I'm sorry," she whispered. He swallowed again and remained silent. "I will go," she said next, resolving as she said it. "I should not have…I am sorry," she said again.

Faramir nodded and held out his hand to help her down the top step. As she reached the bottom she saw his back turned toward her, moving the other way down the wall toward the far staircase, and thence into the gardens to disappear among the trees and bushes. She turned away and hurried back into the Houses, unaware that dawn was just beginning to break over the wall.

* * *

The next morning Eowyn awoke stretched across the bed, still wearing her cloak over her nightgown. She slipped it off hurriedly, knowing that if Bithie came in and saw her wearing it she would know immediately where she had been last night. Eowyn put a hand to her forehead and thought about the night before. It all seemed like a dream now, sitting in her cozy room and watching the green buds wave on the tree outside her window. But she knew it was not a dream. 

She was so ashamed of what she had forced him to say, and the worst part was that she knew it was the truth. Those were his real feelings, and though she felt he had finally told the truth to someone, she knew that speaking it had hurt him. A lot. She had never come across a man like Faramir; most of the men she knew spoke their feelings all the time, and though some things were more personal, they told them to their closest friends. Faramir, she knew, had probably never told anyone anything as personal as what he had disclosed to her last night.

It made her feel strangely honored that he had spoken so freely to her, yet the more she thought about it, the more ashamed she felt. She had beaten and badgered him until he had nowhere to go but to tell her his darkest emotions. She had had a chance to comfort him, perhaps, or simply befriend him, and she had hurt him even deeper. Eowyn put her head in her hands and moaned in regret.

When Bithie entered the room Eowyn was sitting by the fire, which was burning brightly, and her cloak was folded neatly in its place on the chest. Bithie smiled at her charge and said, "Good morning to you, my lady. I hope you slept peacefully."

Eowyn merely nodded, and though Bithie tried to make her speak, the only words she got from her all morning were one syllable answers to her questions. After the noon meal, for lack of better surroundings, Eowyn found herself walking once more in the garden. It was much warmer than it had been the day before, and Eowyn allowed her cloak to fall apart in the front, revealing a plain doe brown dress. As she walked between the shrubs and early blooms of spring, she tried to forget what had happened in the night and revel in the flowers.

Flowers had never been to her taste, before. Where other women found comfort and purpose in the small acts of growing, weeding, and watering blooming flowers, Eowyn had brushed them off as insignificant, if beautiful, objects. In her experience, it was better to spend all her efforts on growing vegetables and crops. Now, however, as she walked in the gardens, she regretted her former mindset and wished she had spent some time simply growing things for pleasure. Wherever I end up, she thought resolutely, I will try my best to grow flowers.

Her head was bent to the flowers when she turned a corner and ran straight into a man who was stopped and staring into a tree. "Oh, pardon me," she said, looking up and beginning to smile; her smile faded as she recognized Lord Faramir. "Oh…" she said, her eyes darting to the paths around her. "I'm—I'm sorry…" she turned and hurried back down the path she had come up, her face flushing a deep red. Her heart was pounding quickly, mortified that she had met the one man she had wished most never to see again. If only she could escape, even in this undignified manner, she would feel better. Her heart sank, therefore, as she heard him calling her name behind her. She slowed and turned, knowing that his expression would be one of anger or annoyance.

To her surprise, therefore, she saw that he was smiling at her. She blinked and looked again, watching as he walked toward her with his slight limp, his eyes smiling softly. Is he completely insane? She wondered. Does he not remember last night? Before he reached her she clasped her hands and said, "I'm—I'm sorry about last night. I was so wrong to ask you to speak. I of all people should know—"

"You promised you would walk with me. Will you?"

Eowyn blinked again, in surprise and confusion. "Walk with you?" she asked uncertainly. He nodded.

"Yes, the day is very warm." Faramir gestured down the path. "Or would you rather sit?"

Eowyn shook her head and by doing so seemed to shake herself out of her stupor. "Oh, yes, let's walk." As they began walking she tried furiously to piece together his reasons for wishing to once more walk with her. He evidently sensed the need to discuss last night, for after a minute he said, "You were right."

"My Lord?" she asked.

"Please," he stopped suddenly and looked into her eyes. "Call me Faramir."

Eowyn nodded and gave him a half smile. Faramir resumed walking and talking. "You were right," he said, "about telling people you're feelings. About speaking of your problems. I felt terrible when I told you, and for a good long time afterwards, too. But gradually, as the sun rose, I noticed that I felt as if I had finally gotten something off my chest that had been there a very long, long time. So thank you."

Eowyn looked up at him in astonishment. "You're welcome," she said faintly. Then, regaining her conviction, she said, "But I should not have pressed you so. It was very wrong of me."

Faramir stopped and bent to examine a shrub. "Sometimes," he said, looking intently at the leaves, "we need someone to do the wrong thing at the right time, and it makes it the right thing." He stood and smiled at her. "Besides, you are a wild shield maiden, and I can forgive you."

Eowyn's mouth opened slightly as she realized he was joking with her. Was this really the man she had spoken with last night? Perhaps, she thought, he was just acting, and she had just caught him off-guard last night. But as she looked into his eyes she saw that there was still pain in them, and it was not hidden, but there was also real, honest life. You got lucky this time, she told herself. But don't try that approach again. Ever. "Yes," she smiled, "I did say that, didn't I? I was right."

They turned to begin walking again, and Faramir glanced down at her. "The only thing is…I'd rather not talk about it again for a little while," he said.

Eowyn nodded quickly. "Of course!" she answered. "I won't ask you about it again."

As they walked their conversation turned to lighter subjects, and the change since the day before was as night and day. Where before they could not talk of any subject without awkwardness and causing grief, now they discussed many different topics in depth, and there was greater sensitivity in their words, for they had begun to know a little about one another. When they finally tired and turned their steps to go back inside, Eowyn smiled at him and asked if he would be so kind as to meet her again, and to beg forgiveness one more time.

"Lady Eowyn," he said seriously, though in a light tone, "I will be honest with you, for I know honesty and trust will not be misplaced with you. I know the shadow still lies heavy on our hearts, but I have felt more light with you than with any other person in these Houses. I felt as if I was drowning last night, in my grief, and you showed me a tiny glimmer of shore. I know I still have rough waters to encounter, but the shore will grow steadily nearer, of that I am sure. I—now I think I will allow myself to grieve for my brother and father, and you will grieve for your cousin and uncle, I believe. We will teach each other how to grieve."

Eowyn's heart was filled with sorrow at his words, but she saw the truth and hope in them, and nodded. As she turned toward her own room she could not help feeling, for some reason she could not understand, guilty that she had not told him her whole story, as she knew his entire struggle. But some things, she said to herself, are just too personal to be shared.

* * *

Thailan watched as Faramir removed his cloak and twisted off his gloves, then sat on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands. For a long moment the only sound was of Thailan puttering with the vials and cups on the table, and then Faramir said slowly, "It's so hard, Thailan." 

The younger man looked up in astonishment at the words, evidence of his surprise on his face. Faramir looked up at him and though his lips did not smile, his eyes were soft. "I know, you're not used to me talking. But I think I've just realized—been shown—that I have to talk about it, or it will eat me alive." He shook his head and put it back in his hands. "Even if that makes it a little easier to bear, it's still so hard."

Before Thailan could answer there was a knock on the door, and Thailan opened it to reveal Damla standing in the doorway, smoothing down a few flyaway strands from her neat brown bun. "Faramir!" she smiled as he rose to greet her, "how are you feeling?"

"You managed to get away from your rigorous duties to see me again, have you Damla?" Faramir asked. Damla had had her hands full as one of the overseers of medicine distribution in the Houses and had only visited Faramir once since the time Aragorn told him of his father's death. She nodded and sank into a chair.

"It's been a madhouse, Faramir, an absolute madhouse. How are you feeling?" she asked abruptly, sitting up straight. "Everything healing alright? No infections, fevers, sores, headaches, bruises—"

"After being in battle I think it's a little unreasonable to ask for no bruises, sores, or headaches," Faramir smiled, "but everything else is fine. Nothing unnatural or too painful. I am being taken very good care of."

"If your Lordship will excuse me." Thailan's voice startled Faramir and Damla, and they turned toward him. Faramir nodded and Thailan left the room. As soon as the door was shut Damla leaned forward. "Do you like him, Fama? I can find someone else if he is not doing his job well enough." Damla's usual blunt style didn't surprise Faramir, but he shook his head.

"Thailan is a good man," he said, "and he is good at what he does. I—he's been a good companion, too." Damla sighed and dropped her eyes to the fire; Faramir leaned forward and took her hand. "Don't be harsh with him, Damla. I ordered him to tell me."

Damla's shoulders sagged and she shook her head numbly. "I'm so, so sorry Fama. I didn't want you to know so soon."

"It was worse not knowing," he said softly. "Although—when I found out what—how—it was almost worse than what I had been imagining."

Damla felt a tear trickle down her face and she wiped it away callously. "He loved you, Fama. He wasn't in his right mind."

Faramir nodded and rubbed his temple. "I know. It seems so odd, but I know he loved me. I keep telling myself that I'm just trying to make myself feel better, but that's not it." He stood and leaned his arm against the fireplace. "I woke up, back when it happened, and I saw his face. I thought it was just another illusion of a dream, but it wasn't. It was real, I can feel it. I was lying on the ground and I could not feel my body for pain and fever, but I saw his face and his eyes looked right at me. All he said was, 'Faramir,' before I passed out again, but in just that one word and that glance I saw that he was—sorry for what he'd done. I think he was in his right mind at the very end. And I know he loved me." Faramir swallowed and fell silent.

Damla wiped more tears away from her eyes and stood to place her hand on his shoulder. "It's—it's good that you're telling me," she said gently. He nodded.

"I've learned in the last twenty-four hours that it will do no good to bottle it up. Damla, I want to serve my country again, and I want to serve my King, should he return. I don't _want_ to be hurting and grieving for the rest of my days, and people were given mouths and tongues for a reason."

Damla wrapped her arms around Faramir and they spoke for some time more of memories and times of old, of Boromir and of Denethor. Now that Faramir's tongue was loosened his tears were too, and he wept with Damla, unashamed of his emotions for one of the first times in his life. As evening descended and Damla reluctantly turned to leave, she said, "Oh, Fama—it seems the Lady of Rohan is moving into the small room next to you. Apparently she requested a room in the East wing, and her things are being moved there now. Perhaps you should try to speak with her. She seems very cold and distant, but you might find her company pleasant…I do not know."

Faramir glanced out the window swiftly and then back at Damla. "Thank you, Dami. I'll try to speak with her."

* * *

**Notes:**_ Now, don't all of you start panicking and trying to hunt me down because of my suddenly-honest Faramir. He is still the same introverted, introspective, intriguing--and whatever other 'in's you'd like to add--young man. I do think he shared his feelings, however. I see no evidence in Tolkien's works that he kept everything shut up all the time--indeed, he was quite startlingly honest at points._


	13. High and Mighty

**Notes: **_Thanks you so much for all the reviews…every time I get a new one I remember why I write! Oh, and since some people were asking, I've sort of been blending movie and book canon and adding some of my own stuff. Just so you know._

_I'm sorry if this chapter seems a little eclectic and scattered--there are some important things that happen in this chapter, and yet I can't help thinking it seems a bit disjointed. Sorry about that! The next chapter, however, is one of my absolute favorites, so if this chapter disheartens you, just hang on until next week._

Chapter Thirteen: High and Mighty

The next morning Faramir met Eowyn in the gardens again. He walked up to see her blowing her breath out and watching the cloud of frosty air melt away. He paused for a brief moment, noticing how her shoulders arched delicately under her cloak and how she tossed her hair to keep it out of her face. "Does it fascinate you so?" he finally asked, and she turned with a slight blush.

"I've always enjoyed seeing my breath," she smiled. "Ever since I was a child." She hesitated and then shrugged. "It _is_ a bit childish, but I suppose I am discovered."

Faramir smiled again and nodded. "I am happy to be the one to discover you," he said. They turned their gaze to the garden and the sky, speaking of growing things and small animals. Eowyn was ashamed at how much more the man beside her knew of plants, and she tried to hide her embarrassment. Yet he never commented on her lack of knowledge, even when she tried to defend herself.

The garden formed a large L shape around the north and east wings on the building, laid out somewhat sporadically, but following a loose pattern of lines of trees followed by beds of flowers and benches set amongst grassy lawns. Eowyn imaged that in the late spring and summer the garden was an oasis of beauty and comfort, for even now it was pleasant. They followed a path around the corner of the building and their footsteps led them aimlessly toward a gate that stood open. A short flight of stone steps followed by a few cobblestones led them onto the street, and Faramir laughed softly. "We have escaped," he said ruefully. "Unwittingly and inadvertently, we are free of our prison."

Eowyn smiled too, but his words stirred something inside of her that was held tightly. She knew there was no way of escape, and now she was unsure she even wanted to leave, but standing on the cold stones and seeing the city spread out in front of her still made her blood rush. "We should run," she said, forcing humor to push down the painful feelings, "and get out before they catch us."

"A good long way we would get," Faramir smiled. "I doubt we could outrun even ancient Ioreth in our conditions. No, I suppose we will just have to wait it out." They were turning to reenter the gardens when a shout alerted them to the street and they turned back in time to see two young boys running toward them. The younger one picked up several rocks and began pelting the other with them. The boy was too nimble to be harmed by the stones, but it was clear the younger was furious.

"Ricah you dog!" he yelled, his voice rising in anger, "Run, why don't you? You better run!"

"Why run?" the boy called Ricah answered, ducking as a stone whistled past his ear. "You couldn't hit a mumakil at ten yards!"

The younger boy picked up more stones and began throwing them in greater fury, getting closer to the Houses of Healing. Faramir stepped forward and tried to catch Ricah by the collar, but the boy, sensing the danger, danced away. Faramir acted fast, and the boy was in his hands in a minute. He turned toward the younger boy just in time to catch a stone in his shoulder. At his wince Ricah managed to get loose, and he tackled the other boy, sending the two of the rolling head over heels. Faramir was on top of them in a minute, and before Eowyn could see what was happening, he had one boy in each hand.

"Let me go!" the stone-thrower yelled, clearly the more vocal of the two. "I didn't mean to hit you!"

"It's not me that you have wronged," Faramir said in a tone that Eowyn at first thought was cold. "Why don't you tell me for what reason you were pelting this young man with rocks."

"Aw, none of your business," the boy said loudly. Faramir shook his collar roughly and glared at him. "You were throwing rocks on a crowded street," he said in the same tone, "and for that reason I demand to know what offense this boy has done you. The sooner you tell me," he reminded him, "the sooner I will let you go."

The boy glared up at him defiantly, and Faramir glanced back at Eowyn. "Come," he said, "Why don't we sit." He pulled the boys over to the curb and they sat grudgingly, the larger beside the smaller. Both had large, brown eyes that looked too big in their dirty faces. Their clothing looked as if it had once been clean and well-kept, but had sprung holes and been caked with dirt just recently. Faramir knew at once, looking at them so closely, that they were brothers.

"Why don't you tell me what your names are and where you live, first," he said. "You—" he pointed at the elder, "speak first."

The boy looked sideways at the younger and shrugged. "I'm Ricah," he said matter-of-factly. "We lived—live in the third level."

Faramir looked at the younger boy who made a face and said, "Kamir."

Faramir crossed his arms and nodded. "Now, you are brothers?"

Ricah nodded. "Yes," he said. He glanced at his brother. "We weren't harming nobody, and we're sorry for throwing stones, right?" His last word was directed at his brother and full of force. Kamir nodded silently. Ricah nudged his brother quickly and said, "Thank you sir, bye!"

Faramir caught their shirts as they bolted past him and turned them around again. "Hold on just a minute," he said sternly, and then he bent down to their level, kneeling on the stones. His voice turned soft suddenly, and Eowyn had a hard time hearing him without leaning closer.

"Where are your parents?" he asked gently, his grip loosening as the boys' faces alternately clouded over and then toughened.

"Some place," Ricah said. Faramir sensed at once the lie, but he also knew why the lad was lying to him. If it was known that they had no parents, something would have to be done, and Faramir could understand their fear. He searched Ricah's face intently, trying to let the boy know he would not harm him.

"You have nothing to fear," he said softly, "but I must know where your parents are." At their continued silence, he added, "Trust me."

Kamir suddenly bowed his head and blurted out, "Mother died last year from the fever, and father fell when he went to Osgiliath with Captain Faramir." Ricah shoved his brother, his eyes snapping with fury, but Kamir looked up into Faramir's face hopefully. He was not done. "We've been living in our house, but we don't have anything to eat. We came up here to look for something." Kamir's dirty face scrunched up and he said, "Do you have anything?"

Faramir leaned back on his feet and wiped a hand across his forehead. "Your father died on the outer posts?"

Ricah nodded resignedly. "He rode out and told us to be good until he got back, but he never came home. We waited in the house for a long time, but finally we had to leave."

Faramir stood and Eowyn saw that his eyes were soft and bright. "There is no place for the children who have lost their parents to stay right now," he said, "but I am sure we can find room in these Houses. Come with me—we will find you something to eat, as well."

Ricah looked uncertainly at Kamir, but the younger brother grinned and stepped forward trustingly. "Come on, Ricah," he said in a half whisper. "We can stay here."

Ricah shrugged and followed his brother and Faramir toward the Houses, seeming to give in to the thought of a full stomach. At the gate Faramir stopped and smiled apologetically at Eowyn. "Forgive me," he spoke. "This will only take a minute."

Eowyn nodded and beckoned the boys in through the gate. "I will be waiting," she said.

* * *

When Faramir came back out into the garden, Eowyn was waiting on a bench under a tree which was shuddering to open its buds. She looked up as he came and smiled. As Faramir watched her smiling at him as he walked he suddenly thought that it didn't seem right somehow—her smile seemed too forced and did not quite fit her face. She was _forcing_ herself to smile, and he knew that if she had the impulse to smile naturally, her smile would be quite different. It would be beautiful.

"You found them something to eat?" she asked as he came and lowered himself onto the bench with a sigh. He nodded.

"I gave them into the care of one of the elderly women. She looked cross at first, but she was only bluffing; she fell in love with them and will take excellent care of them."

Eowyn pulled her cloak tighter about herself. "The poor things…it's terrible to lose both your mother and your father so close together." She fell silent, thinking about her own parents. She didn't really want to speak further on the subject, for though she had spoken freely with Faramir a few nights ago, she had lost the feelings that had driven her that night. Yet she did understand what the boys were going through—to some extent. Now that she thought about it honestly, the boys had it worse than she did, for she had had her uncle to care for her. They had no one.

"I wasn't aware that there were any children left in the city," Faramir said reflectively. "There are young men left behind to serve, but those boys could not have been more than…six and eight. They should have left with the women."

Eowyn shrugged. "Their father did not want to part with them, no doubt," she said. "Though that was not very wise on his part, I'll admit."

Faramir lowered his head until his forehead rested against his fist. "They remind me of my brother and me, though we were not so close in age."

He paused, but Eowyn sensed it was not a pause that conveyed his reluctance to go on, but only that he was unsure his audience would appreciate his words. Eowyn folded her arms across her chest and said, "You threw stones at each other often?"

Faramir's eyes flashed to Eowyn's face and he gave her a smile that for some reason stopped her heart. "No," he said with a laugh somewhere in his voice, "but there was one time when I was convinced the guards were going to attack and kill me. I can't even remember where that irrational fear came from, but one afternoon Boromir and I decided to do something about it. He was only ten at the time, for it was soon after my mother died, and he hardly knew any better." Faramir paused and shook his head.

"What did you do?" Eowyn asked, curiosity stirring.

"We ambushed the poor man," Faramir answered. "Boromir held him, being the bigger one, and I whacked at him with a great, large stick I found. We couldn't do him much harm, but he was so startled I think it took him a few minutes to realize who his attackers were and react to them. He escaped Boromir within minutes, and had us by the collars before I knew what was happening. I thought for sure we would be punished miserably for out actions, but we never were."

Eowyn raised her eyebrows. "Was your father so lenient, then?"

Faramir shook his head. "No, my father was very strict. But the guard never told a soul, and after that day I realized that the guards, by and large, were my friends and protectors." He laughed wryly and fell silent. Finally he said, "It's easier to talk about him than I expected."

Eowyn glanced over at him, and to her surprise she saw him looking back at her. They both looked away abruptly, and she answered, "Sometimes it surprises me, too, how I can remember such good times with so little pain."

Faramir watched a maid open a second-story window and shake a blanket out in the fresh air, her arms pumping up and down to toss the dirt out of the folds. She had dark blonde hair and was dressed in plain gray, but from this distance Faramir thought she could pass for a princess. A princess of a foreign land, he thought. And how much do I know about the princess sitting next to me? he wondered. She had poured her words out to him, that night when he learned about his father, but there had been something lacking in her speech. He had noticed it even while he was so dark and cold inside, and now, in the light of day, he realized that though what she had said was no doubt true, it had lacked heart. She hadn't really told him her emotions and thoughts as she saw them, but only as she wanted them to be seen.

"Lady Eowyn," he said haltingly, "Why did you leave to fight?"

Eowyn's head turned, but he was waiting and their eyes met. She looked away almost immediately, but not before he saw what she was hiding. Shame. He saw the emotion that perhaps even she knew little about and regretted his question. She sat up straighter and shrugged. "Sometimes I ask myself that question," she answered guardedly. "I'd rather not talk about it." There, she thought with some satisfaction, he's not the only one who can be blunt.

Faramir resisted the urge to press her further, for he saw the look of pain in her eyes. He wondered how he could have possibly been blind enough, in the past few days, to not see that she was hurting. He had been consumed with his own grief, but now that he was confronted with hers he had an inexplicable desire to help her, yet he didn't know how.

Eowyn rose, feeling the awkwardness of the pause, and stood uncertainly, fidgeting with her cloak. For the first time in years, Faramir felt something deep in his pulse, as if it was part of his blood…a feeling that he couldn't quite explain, yet seemed the most understandable thing he had ever felt. He watched her eyes move, set in her thin face and high forehead, toward the Houses where the maid was now gone. For one fleeting moment he wanted to plant a kiss on her brow, right above her eyebrow, but he recoiled from the impropriety of the thought. He stood quickly and touched her arm.

"Lady Eowyn," he said softly, "I should not have pressed you. Forgive me—it was very unkind of me."

Eowyn turned to face him, and there was a fine veil in front of her eyes, though whether it hid pain or another emotion, he didn't know. She tilted her head and her eyes grew a shade darker; Faramir thought he could sense a little bit of hostility. "I know you have made hurried decisions, Lord Faramir," she said stiffly, but with an honesty that Faramir appreciated, "perhaps even some unwise ones. You know how uncomfortable it is to speak of those decisions and the actions that came of them, even if they did turn out all right in the end. You will agree, no doubt, that the end does not justify the means—my actions, whatever change they affected in the end, were not necessarily the right ones. So I'd rather not speak of them, just yet, or the people and feelings that led me to make them."

Faramir had nothing to say in response, so he simply nodded and bowed his head slightly. Eowyn returned the nod and with a short, "Good day, my Lord," returned to the Houses. As she entered the dwelling, rubbing her hands which had grown stiff with the cold, she shook her head as if to rid it of the thoughts which troubled her. She smiled inwardly at her words, which had silenced him well enough. If she did not want to talk about it—and by everything she did _not_ want to talk about it—she did not have to, and he needed to know that. High and mighty Lord, he was, directing all the affairs of others, putting on airs and ordering people to talk when he wished them, and listen when he wanted them to. Well she would not play to his tune, not by any stretch!

By the time Eowyn reached her room, which she remembered suddenly was now in the east wing, she had realized her thoughts were completely wrong. As much as she wanted to think of him in that way, she knew he was not a high and mighty Lord, and he was not trying to control her. He was simply interested in her and wanted her to be free to divulge her feelings like he had to her. She knew, too, of the difference in their speeches that night—hers had been detailed, no doubt, but her heart had been miles away. She had spoken little of her feelings, and those weren't the ones that had really driven her. But Faramir had spoken briefly and brokenly, pouring his feelings so effectively into his few words that she had been startled by his honesty.

Eowyn pushed the door open and felt a rush of gratefulness at the warm fire greeting her numb cheeks with warmth and the steaming beverage on the table. Well, no matter what his intentions were, he would still get no tale from her. Some things just had to be private, and she was not about to go telling some man she had only known for a few days all about her love and desire for Aragorn and the hopelessness of her present situation.

* * *

Late in the afternoon Faramir went to visit Tirinion, as much to see the man again as to remove his mind from his struggles and failure to convey himself in the right way to Lady Eowyn. He found the ranger sitting up and looking far better than the last time he had seen him. He, too, was in much better condition, and Tirinion commented on it as soon as he saw him.

"Captain!" he cried, his eyes lighting up, "Thou lookest very well indeed. What medicine are they giving to thee that they withhold from me?"

Faramir laughed and took the hand Tirinion proffered. "That would be the medicine of fresh, crisp wind and warm sunshine," he said. "I have been in the garden every day for the past three days and counting." He smiled warmly at his ranger, trying to convey some of the respect he felt for him. "Pretty soon you, too, will be up and walking about the gardens."

Tirinion smiled at his captain, and Faramir saw a great deal of the pain he had seen there before still in his eyes. "Aye, we shall walk. The healers say my lame leg will be up for exercise in two days, but I doubt I will be walking far with thee, Captain. Not for many moons yet."

Faramir shrugged and leaned closer. "It is hard to have no change of scenery, and nothing to do," he said softly. "Forgive me for not coming sooner." Faramir's thoughts fell to Eowyn and the walks they had been enjoying, and though he knew she needed his company, too, he was ashamed at how much he had been preoccupied with her and had neglected his men. Tirinion brushed his apology away and his brown eyes were sincere as he said, "Thou hast no obligation to visit me, my Lord."

"None but the obligation and privilege of a friend," Faramir insisted. Then leaning back, he assumed a tired tone. "They coddle me far too much, I think. Hot drinks whenever I want them or don't want them, forcing food down my throat, piling blankets on me…it is enough to drive a man insane."

Tirinion seemed glad to speak of something else. "After the battlefield," he agreed, "It's a shock. They say 'tis to speed the healing, but I think it might aye make the healing slower to be addled by their fussing. And this business of not letting me get up—why, I could have been up days ago."

Faramir and Tirinion continued to speak of the Houses until Tirinion suddenly leaned forward with a strange light in his eyes and asked, "Captain, is it true that the Lady of Rohan and thee have been walking together? I overheard the maids saying that the Lady and thyself have become great friends. What is she like—the Wraithslayer?"

Faramir was startled at the title Tirinion put to her, for over the past few days he had grown so accustomed to her he had all but forgotten her status as slayer of the Witch-King. He nodded, however and felt his ears burn a little at the thought that they were the subject of servant gossip. "Yes," he said, "I have been speaking with the Lady, and we have shared the garden. She is very lonely, here in a strange city, and has agreed to walk with me." Faramir ignored the smile Tirinion could not hide, hoping the gossip would soon end, but knowing enough to be sure it would not. "Well," he said wryly, "you may as well tell me what other gossip you know, for you will have heard it much earlier than I, if I hear it at all."

For the next few minutes Faramir and Tirinion talked of the news in the Houses, and then Tirinion asked about the affairs at the Black Gate, to which inquiries Faramir was able to relate a few details but not many. Faramir bid him goodbye soon after, as he was determined to speak with other rangers who had survived and were still in the Houses. As he stood, Tirinion grasped his arm and their eyes locked. "My Lord Captain," Tirinion said seriously, "I wish thee to know that thou art an example to me, for thy spirits are hale and though I know thou art still in shock, thy mind is firmly resolved to heal the wounds."

Tirinion's heartfelt words cut Faramir to the heart, and he nodded swiftly. "We have both suffered beyond what I thought possible," he said in a strained voice, "but we owe it to Gondor and to each other to recover. Rest well, my friend."

Tirinion simply nodded as Faramir turned away and began speaking with the men beside him.

* * *

**Notes:** _Let me know your thoughts! _


	14. Striking A Deal

**Notes:** _I do love this chapter. I feel that this is where Faramir and Eowyn really begin to break through to each other. It is as if a simple act--not brutal honesty, though that helps, or commiseration, though that, too, helps--is the most effective in pulling off the masks they wear. But you can be the judge of that._

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* * *

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**Chapter Fourteen: Striking a Deal

* * *

**

Eowyn's door was slightly ajar as she heard footsteps coming down the corridor. She liked to have the door partly open, for it held the monotony of the day at bay if she could listen to the people passing in the hallway. This pair, she decided, belonged to a man, light of build, and probably a ranger. Eru, she thought, turning over on her bed and closing her eyes. It's probably Faramir.

Her supposition was confirmed as she heard Thailan's voice in the hallway, coming from the other direction. "My Lord," he said, obviously meeting him in the hall, "you look tired. Where have you been?"

"With the men," came Faramir's soft voice in reply. "Visiting. Don't worry Thailan—this time I am quite able to make the walk." Eowyn found herself sitting up slightly to catch their words better. She suddenly felt terribly mischievous and guilty for listening in on their conversation, but she was too interested to stop.

"As soon as I drop these linens off," Thailan was saying now, "I'll bring you a drink. I'll just be a minute."

"Fine." Faramir's reply showed just how thrilled he was about receiving yet another drink he did not ask for and did not have the stomach for. Eowyn listened as she heard Thailan's feet begin to move and then suddenly stop, as if he had just been grabbed by the arm. "I'll tell you what you can get me," Faramir's voice came again. "Is there any sort of—library, or stock of books here?"

Thailan hesitated for a moment before saying, "I know of no such thing, my Lord. Do you wish for something to read?"

"More than anything." Eowyn marveled at how expressive Faramir's voice was…she could almost share his yearning for literature, though she could not read. "If there is any sort of books here…anything at all…"

"I know of no library," Thailan's voice said, "but the Warden has his own private stock in his chambers. He would be delighted, I am sure, to lend you a few. I'll ask him." His footsteps sounded again, and Faramir's voice rang out quickly, "Well, don't put him to any inconvenience—"

"It's none at all, I'm sure," Thailan's hurried reply came as his voice grew fainter. "He'll be delighted!"

By the clicking of the door, Eowyn knew Faramir had entered his room and the conversation was over. She rolled over on the bed again, laying a hand over her eyes. _Read_, he had said. _Do you wish for something to read_. Yes, Eowyn thought. I do wish for something to read. Bring me something, Thailan. Only I can't read. She sat up with a derisive snort and stared at the door. Here she was, eavesdropping because she had nothing else to do. Well, perhaps she could put her stay here to a useful end and bend her mind to learning how to read. She knew the only person who would have the time, skill, and inclination to teach her was close at hand; was he willing to do so after she had been so rude in the garden?

It took her until sundown to get her courage up, and when she did she brushed her hair with long, even strokes and pulled it back into a gentle twist. She had not wanted to look pretty for a man for so long she wasn't even bothered by the feeling, and when she knocked on the door she straightened her chin slightly. She knew she looked fine in her soft gray dress—the seamstress had not yet finished her finer clothes—but she wanted, for some reason, to look beautiful. When Faramir opened the door and his eyes grew slightly wider, she was thrilled to think that she had succeeded, if only a little.

"Did they find what you asked for?" she said, saying her words carefully, before he had a chance to speak. She had rehearsed her speech over and over and was able to recite it quite convincingly. Eomer had always said she was a good actress.

Faramir's forehead creased slightly, and then his eyes lit with a soft glow that Eowyn found was humor. "The books, you mean?" he asked. "Yes, Thailan brought a few. Would you—" he suddenly seemed to sense the impropriety of asking her into his room, and seemingly ignorant of the impropriety of her even showing up at his door, opened the door wide. "Would you like to borrow some?"

Eowyn pursed her lips slightly, screwing up her courage one more time. You've gotten yourself this far, she told herself, you might as well finish it. "Actually—" she stopped, realizing that the words would be infinitely harder to say to his face, attentive and alive, than to the post of her bed. "I…" she could not finish, and she was painfully aware of the flush to her cheeks.

He knew. His first reaction was to chew his lip slightly, from the inside, and then he smiled at her. Turning around he selected a volume from a stack on his table and said, "I have been told my reading voice is quite good, and I love nothing better than to have a listener. Have the hours grown too much for you?"

Eowyn's relief was intense, and she nodded mutely. He looked around, his eyes searching for something. "We—could read in the eastern chamber," he said. "There's usually hardly anyone there this time of night, and I for one don't like crowds." Again, Eowyn nodded, and Faramir pulled his door shut and held his hand out as an indication that Eowyn should go first.

The chamber was only a few steps from the rooms, and neither talked on the short walk. But as they settled into some chairs Eowyn found her tongue again, and desperately trying to salvage her dignity, said, "The hours drag so slowly here. Thank you for offering."

Faramir's smile lit his eyes and even his features seemed to sparkle with the light. "I am only too happy to have found a fellow lover of the written word." The book fell open in his hand, worn from much use, and he began to read. His voice came alive, dipping into the mellow parts and growing hard and cold when the text was serious. Eowyn found herself falling under a spell, not simply because the words were beautifully written and flowed in a quick stream of sounds, but because his voice made them alive. When his voice was sad she was moved almost to tears, such was the depth of his sorrow. When his voice held joy she wanted to laugh aloud for the sheer whimsical life in his voice.

Eventually he slowed and his voice dropped away. For a long time she didn't even seem to notice that he had stopped and he watched her face in the quiet, flickering firelight. Finally, she held out her hand. "May I see it?" she asked. He handed her the book without so much as a nod. Her hands were gentle and almost reverent as she touched the pages, peering at the words in fascination. They were so closely written together they almost looked like drawings of flowers or waves, and she realized with a start that what he had been reading was not written in the common tongue, for she knew enough letters to know this was not it. She looked up to find him watching her, an unreadable expression in his eyes. "What language is this?" she asked, her voice sharp, but not harsh.

Faramir's gaze dropped to the book. "It is elvish," he said quietly, "Quenya. The annals of Gondor are full of such books." He returned his gaze to her face to find her astonished.

"But you read in common…a tale that I understood. How did you translate so quickly? Your voice never faltered." Her eyes looked large in her face, blue and full of wonder. "Do you know it so well?"

Faramir shrugged. "I have read it so many times before that I practically know it by heart. My father used to read it to me, in Quenya, and I later worked on translating it in school." He took the book back and flipped through the pages gently. "It's almost like an old friend, and one doesn't think about explaining an old friend very much—he is already in your heart, waiting to come out."

Eowyn looked down at her hands quickly, trying to hide the envy in her gaze. How she wished, at that moment, that she too had been given the opportunity to be educated in languages—indeed, even in her own language! She lifted her eyes to meet his; the fire seemed to die down, and the crackling to stop. "Will you read it—in its original language?" she asked in a soft voice.

Faramir bent his head and began reading, and if Eowyn had thought his voice held emotion and light before, it was nothing to what she heard now. Every word that dropped from his lips was like a jewel, well crafted and labored over, yet as fresh as if it had just come out of the mine. His voice was trained and supple, yet there was something about the tone of his voice that suggested a depth of real love for the language. He was not just a scholar, learned in the elvish language and reciting it with perfection, he was a character in the tale, living those words along with the other characters.

Eowyn didn't realize her eyes were closed until Faramir touched her arm, and she jerked slightly at his touch. She opened her eyes, and was immediately struck by his face, looking into her own, and it seemed to her that the beauty of his voice was topped only by the beauty of his countenance. But the moment passed, and she saw him once again as just another man, though her eyes had been opened to his skill. "That was beautiful," she said, and at once hated her words, for they seemed so colorless after the smooth elvish. She gave a short laugh, hating herself more, and fell silent.

Faramir closed the book and leaned back. He found his gaze drawn to the soft curve of her white neck, and he watched the spot where her dress met her skin in fascination. Every movement of hers captivated him, he realized, for in her there was a blend of strength and grace that he had never encountered before. Yet as his eyes traveled to her face he knew that she was not happy, for there was something weighing on her mind. It was not that she couldn't read—no, that caused her shame, but it was not the dark burden on her soul. That he did not know. Yet.

He wanted to teach her so much, yet he felt helpless. He wanted to see her eyes light up as she mastered a concept. He wanted to watch her neck and head bend delicately over a book, and see her long fingers grasp a pen and use it to make swirling letters. He wanted to know that she was happy in her accomplishment, and was happy with him. He didn't know why her happiness was so important to him, but it was. There wasn't, however, any way that he could see of offering to teach her that would not wound her pride. If there was one thing he had learned about this White Lady, it was that she protected her pride like a tigress.

As Eowyn stirred, oppressed by the silence that had fallen over them, he suddenly raised his head and smile played with his mouth for a moment. "My Lady," he said, sitting up slightly. Eowyn's head raised and she arched her eyebrows inquiringly. "I—I have a favor to ask of you."

Eowyn's surprise was evident, but she nodded encouragingly. "Yes?" she asked.

Faramir smiled at her, willing his eyes to hold nothing but comfort. "I have always been captivated by languages, as you have probably guessed. My tutors taught me elvish, of course, and I have dabbled in some other languages, but I never learned the language of Rohan. In fact, I know very little about the Rohirrim people, and that I regard as a terrible failure. Would you—would you consent to teach me, at least as far as I can learn?"

The silence in the room was heavy, but Faramir felt that what he had said was not wrong, and his wording had been chosen correctly. Eowyn's eyebrows were still raised, but her lips turned up at the corners. "Rohirrim is not a written language, for the most part," she said slowly. "I would have to teach you by ear alone." Faramir nodded and smiled at her.

"That much I know," he said. "It makes it much more alive, don't you think? Rather a language that is spoken and not written than a language that is written and no longer spoken."

Eowyn folded her hands, thinking about the turn of events. She had originally planned to ask to be taught how to read and write, and here she was about to agree to teach him her own language. Yet now…now she thought she could find the courage. Speaking quickly, before her resolve failed, she said, "Alright, I will, but on one condition." His inquiring gaze encouraged her, and she kept her eyes lowered as she said, "I found no time nor use for writing in Rohan, yet now I wish that I had been taught to read and write in the common. If I teach you my language, you must agree to teach me yours."

Faramir's laugh startled Eowyn, and she looked up to see him grinning at her. "We have struck a deal, then," he said. "One that is mutually beneficial." His lightness of heart encouraged Eowyn to smile at him, if only a little, and she nodded.

"We will start right away." But arresting her hand in midair as she reached for the book, she paused and seemed to notice how low the fire had burned, and how silent the halls had grown. She smiled slightly at Faramir and dipped her head to the side. "Perhaps tomorrow morning," she said, "for I fear I am weary."

Faramir nodded and stood swiftly to give her his hand as she rose. "Shall we meet here again, mid-morning?" he asked. At Eowyn's nod he went on: "I shall endeavor to find parchment and writing implements, if there are any left in this city."

Eowyn smiled and nodded again and was bidding Faramir goodnight when he lay his hand once more on her arm. At his action Eowyn raised her eyes to his and was startled to see something akin to grief there. "I am sorry about this afternoon," he said softly. "It was wrong of me to press you, and I beg your forgiveness."

Eowyn shook her head and batted his apology away. "It is of no consequence," she replied.

"But it is," he insisted, his words arresting her steps. "I have no right to pry into your affairs like I did. I of all people should know how tiresome that can be, and yet I pressed you like a fool." He looked down and then raised his grey-green eyes once more to hers, holding her gaze. "Know that I will never again ask you to speak of what your heart feels, when you do not wish to do so. But my Lady, I would also dare to say that you and I have found friendship and solace in one another, and if there is anything you desire to confide to me, I am willing to hear it."

Eowyn smiled for his sake and murmured something appropriate as she turned out of the room. The short walk back to her room was silent, and as she shut the door after bidding him goodnight she knew she should feel relieved that he had apologized and gave his word he would not ask her to share her feelings again. After all, wasn't that what she wanted? To be left alone? Yet the only sight that rose again and again to her mind's eye was that of Faramir's expression as she turned away from him, refusing him, shunning his kind intentions. She told herself there was absolutely no reason for her to divulge her secrets to him, but she could not shake off the feeling that if she only told him, somehow it would all be right. That's ridiculous, she thought as she climbed into her bed and watched the bedside candle flicker. There is no way he could possibly help me. If only I could forget the way he looked at me, like he knew all about why I came, and all of the feelings I can't even think about myself.

With an effort, she forced herself to think of other things, and before long she was smiling slightly and drifting off to sleep, thinking of pens, parchment, and letters dancing before her eyes.

* * *

His gasp was like the sound of a stone dropped in a still pool, shattering the silence of the night. He was aware that he was sitting up only after his breathing slowed and his sight cleared; his eyes shone in the pale moonlight like jewels, bright and full of fire. It was not the middle of the night anymore, but morning had not yet begun to break through the night. The world slumbered in the cold, dead period between comfortable night and hopeful morning.

Faramir sat, staring, until his mind returned to the coldness of the room, pushing away the shadows of fire that clung to him from his dreams. As if he was shrugging off a cloak, he shook his shoulders and raised his hands—cold in the moonlight—to his forehead, willing his brow to be cool. It was warm and sticky with sweat, and he gave a shuddering sigh. With the release of air he seemed to release his strength, too, and he sank back against the pillows. The glowing embers in the fireplace seemed to challenge him, beckoning to him and taunting him with their light. They were light, he was dark. They had warmth, and he was cold. They won.

Faramir turned his head purposefully away from the fireplace, trying to keep his thoughts from his dream. It was a futile effort, and he knew even before he began to try. The images flashed through his mind once again, almost as clearly as they had when he was sleeping. He dreamed of faceless fire gods, wreathed in flames, beckoning and dragging him towards their biers. He dreamed of feelings, not men, and that was worse, for he could not fight feelings, even as he could not fight dreams. He trained his thoughts during the day, and he could will his mind to dwell upon what he wanted. But at night he could not control the direction his thoughts took, and he was at the mercy of his phantasms.

Finding strength from some inner place, Faramir pushed himself up and swung his feet over the side of the bed. The floor was cool and felt good on his bare feet; he sat for a minute, allowing his mind to relish the touch of pleasure. Then he stood, rubbing his shoulder, which was throbbing and stiff, and turned toward the balcony. The door was shut, but he opened it, grateful that it did not stick or make a squeaking sound, and stepped into the light of the moon. He bent over the railing, gripping it tightly until the wave of nausea passed. He knew he was recovering, but still his weakness overcame him every so often and his efforts were more than his body was willing to do. Yet the moment passed, and he remained standing on the balcony, supporting his legs with his grip on the railing.

It was in the night, directly after such a dream as the one he had just had, that he remembered most poignantly the reality of the darkness that had almost consumed him completely. His mind was uncomfortably close to the feelings of weakness—blinding weakness—and hopelessness he had experienced. If the king had not saved him he would certainly have perished. Yet as difficult as the emotions were to remember, the thoughts that tugged at his mind were even worse…questions of what there was left for him here, why he had been saved, and whether it would have been better to simply die. He didn't want to think that way, but as he stood, numb in the darkness, he could not stop them from coming. He felt worthless here, unneeded, and unwanted. But he was determined to fight those emotions, and now, as he swayed in the moonlight, he told himself once again that he _would_ recover, and he _would_ live life again—live like he had not lived before. He determined that his life would change now, should the world keep spinning and evil be overcome. He determined to find meaning for living, even if he had to search all over Middle Earth.

Hid mind suddenly flew to the dream he had had the previous night, and the wave that had risen up to destroy Numenor was bright in his mind. He shuddered at the dream, knowing that he often saw things that did indeed happen. Yet he also knew himself, and he knew the feeling when something was not quite right. Hope, springing from some unknown place, suddenly filled his mind and he had the urge to smile—smile in the midst of all his troubles, all his sorrow, and all his suffering.

And in the middle of that joy, he thought of Eowyn, and of the pleasure her company was to him. He did not deceive himself, and he knew that Eowyn was the kind of woman he could grow to love, and he feared that love had already begun to grow. He was no fool, and he saw that there was no love in her heart. Attraction, perhaps, and companionship definitely, but other than a reflection of his own dire need for company and companionship, Faramir saw nothing in her heart. Not towards him, anyway. He did not know how he could sense it, but somehow he knew the cause of her sorrow and unwillingness to talk about her pain was because she loved another man. Yet that fact only endeared her more to Faramir, for he knew that her hesitance to speak of it was either because of some respect for his feelings, as a man and as a friend, or simply because of some standard of decency on her part. The fact that she did not go shouting her secrets from the rooftops told him something of her character, and though she was rough at times, she could be very sensitive too, he was beginning to think.

The simple truth of it was she intrigued him. He had never met a woman so honest, yet so sensitive. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about it, but she wore her beauty like a comfortable article of clothing—forgetting that it was there, yet appreciating it nevertheless. She was not like the ladies of court, who grasped their beauty like they were drowning and it was their only hope for survival—her fair face was highlighted by the evident knowledge that one day it would pass away, and she would be left with only herself.

The more Faramir thought about her, staring out at the gardens without seeing them, the more he burned to know who the man she loved was, and whether she had any hope of his returning her affection. It was possible there was none, for her love, he knew, was closely tied to her decision to run to the army. He longed to ask her, and for her to tell him—trust him as he knew he could be trusted. But he knew trust was not won in a day, and he knew he had to be patient. His gazed turned up the sky, reluctantly, and he sighed. I want her to love me, he thought. To return my love. Then he straightened in disgust. He had never before been one to let his emotions run away, and he would not allow himself to start now. It was better to think about the plans he would make to reconstruct some of the city, should the King and the host return. Eowyn and his dreams would last until he was released from the Houses, and then he would go to work. Turning, he found his way back inside as the moon began to set.

* * *

**Notes:** _I found I could not resist adding in the typical dream scene with Faramir. Shameless, I know--but then again, why shouldn't the man have had bad dreams? In all likelihood he would have. _

_I know Eowyn might very well have learned to read--she was, after all, a princess. But I chose to ignore that and go with the explanation that Rohan was fast fading--her uncle was bewitched, her brother and cousin constantly occupied with war, and her mother and aunt both long dead. As you read, she had a meager understanding of letters, which might have been because of some early schooling, but in the long run, I chose the explanation that Eowyn's education was overlooked along with many other things._


	15. Frum Gal, Wine

**Notes:** _Once again, thank you for all the lovely reviews. I'm glad you liked the reading scene...here's more of it! _

_Just to let you all know (so that you're not surprised) there are 20 chapters in this story. Worked out nicely, don't you think? Also, as regarding Eowyn: It's a little complicated (no surprise there!), but my idea on Eowyn is that she was just very confused, and very scared. You'll see a lot more of her POV in the next few chapters, but in general she just doesn't want to think about Aragorn, her life, or her attraction to Faramir. She hides in her fear, protecting herself from more pain by refusing to open her heart. Until...well, you know. :-)_

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**Chapter Fifteen: Frum Gal, Wine

* * *

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Faramir's fingertips touched the door lightly, resting on the wood, feeling the grain. In the touch warmth met cold, living met dead. Like so many times before, he was confronted with an obstacle in his path, itself surmountable, yet representing to him the insurmountable obstacles that lay beyond. He turned to Kitha, hovering behind him, and his glance fell on her sharply, through a fringe of hair. "You locked them in?" he asked quietly, yet in sharp tones. "I thought you did not want to scare them?"

Kitha shrugged nervously and, Faramir thought, a little helplessly. "They were so upset, my Lord, and we were not sure if they would try to escape us."

Faramir shook his head and turned back toward the door. His hand had not left the rough grain of the wood, and now he waited, as if his hand would know the right moment to enter. When Thailan had first told him of the difficulty they were having and asked him, grudgingly at disturbing him, there had been no doubt in his mind that he should come, but now, standing outside the door, he was suddenly unsure. What if he didn't have the words that were needed and he only made the situation worse? Why had he been so sure he could soothe them…why had he trusted in his own ability?

Yet, as the moment stretched longer and Kitha moved anxiously behind him, he knew he had to try. After all, he could sense their emotions as easily as his own—they wrote them on their faces and Faramir, who was experienced in reading practiced men's thoughts, had no trouble distinguishing theirs. In any event, he told himself resolutely, I can understand them better than any of these women can. Without moving his hand he turned the key in the lock and slipped inside the door, his hand coming in last, as if unwilling to leave the rough wood.

He had expected to be confronted by their faces, hostility or perhaps confusion showing, but his first glance fell upon their backs, for they were both staring out the window. At the sound of the door, however, Ricah's head turned and his eyes flashed at Faramir, showing all of the emotions Faramir knew were uppermost in his turbulent mind. As Faramir had guessed, he held his silence, and Kamir broke the momentary pause.

"What do you want?" the little boy asked, turned and spreading his hands against the stone of the wall. "Why won't you let us out?" His voice challenged Faramir, and Faramir was surprised at the degree of hatred in his voice.

"I am sorry they locked the door," Faramir said softly, not moving from his position near the door. He understood innately that though his words needed to be soothing, they also needed to be straightforward and honest, with none of the sweet subtlety the woman had been using. The fact that the boys did not want to stay and take their care already told Faramir that they were not used to coddling. So, his words those of a man speaking to another man, Faramir said, "You know they can't let you run the streets."

"Why not?" Kamir burst out before Ricah could shush him. Faramir raised an unconscious hand to his shoulder, rubbing the healing skin lightly. "Because you have no food," he said, still in the tone of an adult talking to another adult. "You have no one to provide for you. The women here can give you food and beds until they figure out what to do for you. I know you don't want to stay here, but—"

"We were doing fine by ourselves," Ricah said, his voice flat and his face betraying less emotion that Faramir had thought it would. "Let us go…we won't be any trouble."

"They can't," Faramir said, shrugging his shoulders.

Kamir's face exploded into scream. "What do you mean they can't?" he yelled, stepping forward, and for his short stature, he looked quite menacing indeed. "I hate you! I hate this place! I want to go home!"

Faramir's forehead creased the tiniest bit, and he dragged helplessly at the store of things to say to a child. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that whatever rote expression he used would do nothing, and honesty would be the best path, but he ignored it and said, soothingly, "It'll be alright…"

Whatever Faramir had expected Kamir to do next, it was not to pick up the clay jug that sat on the table, smash it against the hard edge, and hurl it at him with all his strength. But that was what the boy did, and Faramir just had time to raise his hands before the broken pottery smashed against his forehead, just above his right eye, and a trickle of blood seeped down to his eyebrow. Faramir's gasp was involuntary, but the slice of pain across his forehead and the red on his hand as he brought it down startled him, and for a moment he forgot where he was and what he was trying to do.

Kamir was reaching for another piece of the pottery, triumphantly surveying Faramir, when Ricah grabbed his brother roughly by the arm and said in a tight, harsh voice, "Stop that! What do you think you are doing…" he paused, getting the best of his anger, and then almost whispered, "Father would be so ashamed of you."

Ricah's eyes met Faramir's as he looked up, and Faramir saw clearly through the boy's eyes now a change of feeling. Is this what the streets have done to my little brother? his eyes asked. If so, perhaps I should listen to this man. He stepped forward slightly, still holding his brother's arm and asked, "Are you alright?"

Faramir nodded, raising his sleeve to wipe the blood off his forehead. The cut was a mere scratch, and would heal cleanly, probably without a scar. "You have quite an arm," he said to Kamir, aware that he was only speaking what was in his heart now, and knowing that he would not try again to pacify them by sweet words. "Did that make you feel better?"

Kamir's eyes stared up at him defiantly for a moment and then the boy's tousled head lowered, bowing in shame. His outburst, Faramir sensed, would not have been tolerated had his parents still been living, and he could tell it grieved the boy, young as he was, to have given in to his impulse. There was a moment of silence, in which Ricah let go of Kamir's arm, and then Faramir said, "Will you not at least tell me the name of your father?"

"Japhalen," Ricah said softly, the name given as an apology and a signal that he would cooperate now. He crossed his arm across his small chest and heaved a sigh. "He died with Lord Faramir." His head snapped up, suddenly, and he said, "Please, sir, I don't know who you are, and we'll stay here now, but please don't separate us. I'd—we'd rather be on the streets than go to different houses." His words were a plea, and Faramir did not let them go unnoticed.

"Of course not," Faramir said, stepping forward for the first time and again raising a hand to wipe his forehead of blood. "I do not know what will happen to you, now, for many things will be decided when the King returns. But you must trust us, and you must do as the women say. They want to help you, although…" he looked around as if suspicious one of the women of whom he spoke was listening. "They can overdo it, a little."

Faramir sensed the change in the boys' emotions, and he knew they would try now, but he also knew the nature of boys. Stooping slightly, he said in a friendly tone, as from one soldier to another, "Personally the gardens are where I like to go. The women don't like to go out there, especially when it's cold, and there's lots of room to walk and run around."

Kamir's face flashed a smile; it was only for a second, but it was there. "When can we go out, sir?" For a moment there was panic in his eyes, as he said, "They will let us out, right?"

Faramir smiled, softly but wholeheartedly, and nodded. "They will indeed. And you can call me—Faramir," he finished, realizing too late what effect his name would have on them. For a minute he was not sure if them would hate him or love him, but his fears were ended as their faces turned radiant with delight.

"Captain Faramir?" Kamir asked, putting emphasis on 'Captain'. "You're the real Captain Faramir?"

Ricah stepped forward and smiled at him. "You led the charge," he said in soft tones. "You are the greatest Captain Minas Tirith has ever seen." He paused and then added, "That's what my father said," as if that would seal the importance and veracity of the words.

Faramir smiled again, and he put his hand on the doorframe to feel something solid. "Thank you," he said. "Your father did a very fine job himself. Very fine indeed." He didn't tell them that he had never met their father, who had obviously been one of the soldiers and not a ranger, because it made no difference. Japhalen had fought under him, and therefore he was one of his brethren, sealed in blood and united under one banner and one goal. These boys who knew so little of many other things understood that perfectly.

"I must go now," Faramir said, standing and wiping his forehead. "I'll see you in the garden."

* * *

Eowyn had almost made up her mind to return to her room. She stood irresolutely, wringing her hands together in agitation. How could Faramir do this to her? He had stood her up before they had even gotten past the initial stages of friendship, and she was angry with him. So he thought he could simply set a meeting and then blow it off? He thought she would simply wait for him to show up, as if she had nothing better to do? Or perhaps he knew she didn't have anything better to do and wished to make fun of her? Her blood began to heat at the indignity of her situation. She had been sitting in the little room for the past hour and a half, trying to amuse herself with her own thoughts. 

She thought with disgust of the plan she had set out in her mind of how she would begin Faramir's lessons in Rohirric. She had decided to start with some vocabulary, a little bit of simple grammar, and progress from there; now she was ashamed of having thought he would want to learn her language at all. He had obviously been saying the words for some reason that she could not fathom, and he had never wanted to learn at all. Somehow, and she chastised herself for thinking even this, she had not imagined him to be the sort of person to say empty words simply for effect. But she could be wrong about anyone, she reflected, thinking of more painful memories.

She sat down again on a chair before the fire and dropped her head into her hands. The tears came grudgingly, and she tried to stop them, but she couldn't. She cried even more at her own weakness, her own inability to control her emotions. What was happening to her? she wondered vaguely. She had once been able to keep all her fears and emotions inside, tightly locked up. Now they poured out of her at the smallest notice, and she was ashamed that they were about such a slight thing as a snub from a man she hardly knew.

"Forgive me, my Lady, I—" she raised her head at the voice, startled by its closeness, and her eyes met those of Faramir. He looked surprised, at first, and then ashamed and grieved. "Oh, forgive me," he said again, but this time his words were full of pain he couldn't hide—remorse at himself, and she knew he sensed at once the cause of her tears. "I am so very late…I…" he trailed off, and she knew he didn't know what to say to her. She felt her cheeks stain and she rose quickly to greet him, brushing a hand on either cheek.

"I—it's alright," she said awkwardly, finding that she herself didn't know what to say, and wishing desperately that she had managed to control herself for only a little longer. "I don't know what came over me." She suddenly noticed the quill and ink he held in his hands, and the book under his arm. Her eyes looked up at him inquiringly, and then she noticed the angular cut above his eyebrow. "Oh!" she said, her embarrassment gone in a moment of concern. "What happened?"

He set the book and writing implements down on the table carefully, raising a hand to his forehead. He winced as he felt the dried blood and smiled lightly at her. "I went to visit Kamir and Ricah, which is also why I am so grievously late. They were a bit upset…and unhappily for me, there was a clay vessel on the table. Kamir has quite an arm."

Eowyn gasped and shook her head. "He should be punished!"

Faramir shrugged. "He is young, and he has had a very trying life recently. He should not have done it, but he was acting out of anger and frustration at being kept here." He looked down at the table and smiled again. "I knew it would make me even later, but I could not come without finding paper, pen, and a book to teach with." His deep eyes looked up to hers, and he said, "I am truly sorry to have kept you waiting."

Eowyn felt a stab of guilt at having thought such terrible things of him, and she recalled very briefly that somehow she was always assuming his guilt and he was always disproving her. But then her mind dwelt again on her tears and she felt the flush creeping to her cheeks again. "It is no matter," she said more curtly than she meant and sat down at the table. For a moment Faramir stood, knowing in his heart that her tears had been because she thought he had abandoned her, and yet he sensed that that had been only the tip of the iceberg, and again he felt a desire to know who the man was that had captured her heart so completely. He tried to dismiss the feelings of sorrow and even, he realized to his discomfort, jealousy.

"Well," he said softly, making a huge effort to get away from his reflections and not think of her hair dripping over her shoulder and hanging down to form a golden shawl about her body, "I suppose we should start with the alphabet." His words were so frank and natural that, though she had readied herself for some discomfort at being so unlearned, she found there was no judgment in him. He took a sheet of paper out of the stack and dipped the quill into the ink to write. She watched his hands closely as he wrote the letters down, unconsciously marveling at the way his hands, scarred and calloused and seeming terribly strong even after his illness, moved so fluently with the pen. She had the feeling that, though she see the same hands handle a bow, a sword, or any other tool, this was the tool that his hands had been made for.

He held the sheet out to her and she looked at the small letters gracing the top of the page. "A," she smiled, pointing to the first one. Her voice was touched with humor, but shy and unsure, as if she did not know if he would accept her slight knowledge as funny or pathetic. He smiled back at her and nodded.

"My work is already over!" he said, raising a hand to rub his shoulder. "But do you know the names of the others?" It took Eowyn only a very short time to learn the letter's names, and then he set her to copying them. That was a little harder, but the knack came with practice. On her fourth 'q' she felt Faramir's hand come over her own and hold the pen with her. She looked up in surprise to find his head bent over the page. "You are holding it too tightly," he said in the husky, gentle voice she found strangely unsettling. "Let it loose and let the letter glide off your pen." The muscles in his hand moved and they penned the letter together, slowly and carefully curving the tail of the 'q'. Her eyes did not leave his face, and suddenly his eyes came up to meet hers.

Time stopped. Eowyn was aware of his hand still on hers, calloused and hard, yet supple and gentle. His eyes were so close, and she could feel his body tensing next to hers, ready to move should she make any action. Suddenly she didn't want to—she wanted to stay like that forever, near his warm, shaky breath and his strong body. But she felt his hand leave hers and he drew back, looking down for a long moment. Neither of them spoke as he raised a hand to touch his forehead, mostly, she thought, to hide his eyes from her. Her own gaze fell to the paper and the 'q' that was drying.

"Shall we move on?" he asked, his voice low, in the back of his throat. She nodded mutely and took up the quill again. She tried to focus on the letters once more—tried to forget the moment of electricity between them. But she was, like it or not, painfully aware that he was close to her and his breath was touching the air beside here. Her letters grew more and more sloppy as her thoughts were dragged farther away from the paper and ink, and before she could stop herself—or was it after much effort?—she was thinking of another man's arms, strong and protective, around her, and his voice telling her that the world would not harm her. It was like a comfortable garment, these thoughts of Aragorn, and she struggled to drag her mind away from the man beside her, his soft, commanding voice, his gentle hands, and his unfathomable eyes.

"My Lady?" Faramir's voice was soft, but there was something in it that brought Eowyn back and caused her to look at him. His eyes held nothing, as far as she could tell—no annoyance or confusion. But she knew, just the same, that he had guessed there had been a man in her life. She didn't know how or when, but somehow she knew he understood her silence when speaking of her past. It aggravated her, and she turned her head away purposefully, her eyes falling on the sheet of parchment in front of her.

Faramir lifted another quill and dipped it in the ink, and she noticed his reluctance to take her pen again. He pulled the paper toward him and said in a level voice, "You must craft the 'w' a little more lightly. You cannot have all your ink dripping to the page." He focused his attention on the letters he was writing, trying to forget the fact that she was utterly consumed with whoever He was. He forced himself to remember that he had nothing to do with her past, and he had no right to hope she could forget her past and have anything to do with him.

His thoughts took up a glimpse of a second, and he was still writing a proper 'w' when Eowyn suddenly said, "Oh—are you left handed? I have never seen a left handed man."

Faramir glanced up at her and saw her looking inquiringly at him. "No," he smiled, setting the pen down. "But with this shoulder…" he gestured to his right shoulder as he trailed off, and she remembered his wound.

"Oh, of course," she said. She paused for a moment and then said, "But you write so well with your left! I cannot imagine what your hand would look like should you use your right."

Faramir smiled and shrugged. "I had to teach myself to write with my left when I was injured a few years ago. A captain cannot write commissions and orders without a good hand, and I would trust no secretary with all my orders. But…" he smiled a little lopsidedly and raised his right hand to the table. He stretched his fingers slowly, then lifted the pen and dipped it in ink. His forehead creased with effort as he wrote, slowly, but Eowyn's eyes widened at his script. The difference between his left handed script and his right handed script was like the difference between his reading last night in the common and his reading in elvish. Eowyn first felt admiration and then a pang of envy.

"I should love to write so well!" she said before thinking, and then she blushed. "I mean—it is beautiful."

Faramir laid the pen down and rubbed his shoulder with a grimace. "It came of years and years of tutors," he said, likewise not thinking. Then he looked down and smiled. "Someday, you will write like that too. But you must practice," he said as a way to turn the subject, and he pushed the paper toward her. "Now try again, my Lady."

"Eowyn," she said suddenly. "Please."

Faramir stared at her in silence for a long moment before dipping his head slightly. "Eowyn." Her name sounded rough on his tongue, and to make up for it he said, "Please call me Faramir."

"Faramir," she said. Then: "I should return to my room now, Faramir."

Faramir smiled and stood with her, but as she reached the door he called out, "Eowyn?" She stopped and turned to face him. He stood with one hand on the table, and said, "You have taught me no Rohirrim."

Eowyn felt a pang of some emotion she could not place touch her heart, but she smiled. "_Frum gal, wine_," she said. "At first light."

* * *

**Notes:** _I couldn't resist the whole left-handed thing! Let me know what you think. __Up next: Eowyn spies, despairs, and receives a beautiful gift._

_I make no claims about my Rohirrim; 'frum gal, wine,' literally means 'first light, friend.' So please forgive me if you happen to be an expert on the Rohirric language!_


	16. Seven Days

**Notes:** _Many thanks for that lesson in 'Rohirrim' and 'Rohirric', and many apologies for my misuse of the words. If I miss one later in the story, know that in my mind, now, if not in my writing, I have been set straight. :-)_

_I hope you're all following my Eowyn in her confusion and distress. If you think at some points that she isn't making sense--you're right! She doesn't make sense completely, because she's scared and she doesn't want to think about her emotions. So bear that in mind.

* * *

_

**Chapter Sixteen: Seven Days**

* * *

Eowyn had not expected him to ask her to teach him Rohirric, after her thoughts before he had come, and she struggled all the way back to her room with the emotions his words had brought upon her. There was no doubt in her heart that she loved Aragorn, still, even after he had spurned her, but she also felt an uncanny seed of doubt beginning to blossom. It was as if her assurance that she would never love another was shaking, and this man who was so good looking and so learned could perhaps make her love him after all. 

But she pushed the thoughts away as best she could at her knowledge that he could not possibly think of her as a serious match. Who was she, after all? True, she was the niece of the King—the sister of one, now, she thought with a shock—but that was not likely to matter much to a Lord of Gondor. It had not mattered to Aragorn. Faramir had been the son of the most important man in all of Gondor, up until Aragorn had come, and his position would still be one of glory and respect. She had never heard him speak of Rohan without the highest honor, it was true, but she could not pretend to know what was in his heart, or the hearts of the court around him. He was probably expected to make a good match, and a shield maiden from the wilds of Rohan, who did not even know her letters, was not likely to be the kind of woman the people here expected.

She passed the rest of the afternoon in her rooms, doing light embroidery on a piece of muslin Bithie had brought for her. She had learned embroidery young, like all noble women, but it did not interest her as much as other maidens, and her afternoon would have been very dull had not Bithie burst in, face aglow, in mid afternoon with her arms full of packages. "They're here my Lady!" she said breathlessly, throwing bundles triumphantly onto the bed and ushering two more women in, each of whom carried more packages. Eowyn stood and dropped her neglected needlework onto her chair.

"What is it?" she asked, and Bithie shook her head with a smile.

"It's your new clothes, my Lady! What else would it be?" She sent the women out with a thanks and then turned to the bundles. "Let me show you the gowns, my Lady…you will love them, I am sure."

Eowyn could not pretend to be wholly uninterested. Bithie's swift hands undid the packages, revealing gown after gown, and Eowyn felt a bit of pride at the thought that she would once again dress as her station. Even in Rohan she had worn much finer things than what she had been wearing here. The clothes, she also found with some surprise, were beautiful. They were not, as she had feared, overly gaudy and frivolous, but they fell in clean, delicate folds. They were rich and ornate, but there was no stuffiness about the richness, and Eowyn knew she would be comfortable in them.

Bithie laid them all out on the bed, and Eowyn saw that there were four dresses. She marveled at the quickness of the seamstresses—they would have worked day and night making these dresses in such short a time, to say nothing of the nightgowns, undergarments, and other pieces of dress that were lined up on the bed. Two of the dresses were day dresses, meant to be worn in the mornings and afternoons; one was a light blue trimmed with snatches of silver braid, and one was a dark crimson that Eowyn knew would make her hair appear almost white, if it lay over her back as it often did. The third dress was more ornate, and Eowyn thought that it appeared scandalously low in the bosom, though she assumed that was the style here. It was of a heavier cloth than the others, green in color, and the bodice was studded with tiny seed pearls. Eowyn gasped as she fingered it and raised her eyes to Bithie.

"Their craft will be graced by your beauty," the maid said simply, understanding the look in Eowyn's eyes. "You will honor them to wear it."

The fourth dress was unlike any of the first three, and Eowyn was a loss as to what exactly it was for. It was white, as pure as the clouds, and around the hips a gold belt hung delicately. Eowyn knew when she put it on it would accentuate her figure in the way a woman wanted it, but the dress itself was not provocative at all. She suddenly raised her arms to her back, trying to unbutton her dress, for she found she wanted to try the white dress on very much. Bithie stepped up to help her, and the white dress floated over her head and settled on her body as if she had been born in it. The belt, as she had expected, hung around her hips and she raised her hands to rub the arms of the dress and the waist.

"It's lovely," Bithie said, her voice conveying just how truthful her statement was. "It looks as if it was sewn onto you."

Eowyn lowered her head to look over the dress. "The seamstresses here work wonders," she said. "I would not have expected anything to fit me so well, on such short notice." She gazed at herself for a moment longer and then seemed to snap out of the spell the dress held over her. She glanced at the bed and her brow furrowed. "There is no cloak!" she exclaimed. "Is that coming later?" Then, realizing her words might sound as if she was demanding special treatment from the people of Minas Tirith, she said, "But that is all right. I do not need one right now."

"Oh no," Bithie said, bustling around and picking up clothes. "I will send and find out. Your Ladyship cannot possibly be expected to go without a proper cloak! That one—" she pointed to the gray, worn one hanging over the back of a chair, "is simply not fitting of your rank!"

"It will be fine," Eowyn said with a slight smile. "I have made do with much worse."

Bithie said nothing else, but Eowyn knew the maid would request a cloak, and she would likely have it in a few days. It would probably be lined with sable, too, if there was any fur to be found in the city. She took off the white dress and put on the one she had been wearing, telling Bithie that she had no need for a fancy dress at that moment, and Bithie was soon gone with the promise of supper soon to come.

Eowyn sat down on her bed and looked reflectively at the closet where her new clothes had been stowed. Would those clothes make Faramir like her any more? But that was ridiculous, she thought. He was already more than cordial to her, and anything else would be annoying to her and grievous for him. For her heart was already given to another man, never to be taken back. Wasn't it?

With a sigh, she fell back against the bed and closed her eyes momentarily, trying to grasp the emotions bubbling inside of her. When she opened them again, her eyes met a small vent in the wall, just above her table. The metal covering had come loose at one corner, and she narrowed her eyes as she tried to place which side was which, and whose room was on that side. It was Faramir's room—she knew it almost at once. She knew she should resist the temptation on all accounts and should simply turn away from the grate and go on with her thoughts, but she couldn't. Without stopping to think, she rose and clambered to the top of her table, steadying herself with one hand against the wall. The grate was just at eye level, when she stood on the table, and she moved the piece of metal easily enough.

The view into his room was better than she had expected. The whole of the little whitewashed room was visible to her, and she saw that, to her surprise, Faramir was in the room. She didn't know why that surprised her—after all, it was his room, and there was no place more logical for him to be, but still, she had not expected to actually see him. His back was to her, and she watched as he filled a cup with water and gulped it down as if he was dying of thirst. He wore only a simple shirt and trousers, and she realized she had never seen him in anything but full dress and a cloak. That struck her as odd, but she knew it shouldn't. After all, he had certainly never seen her in anything but full dress!

The door to his room suddenly opened, and Faramir turned to greet a young man Eowyn had not seen before. The sounds were dim, and Eowyn knew when she re-shut the grate the sounds would be almost completely muffled, but she could make out their words now. "Is it time?" Faramir was saying, setting the cup back on the table. He looked strangely uncomfortable, and Eowyn wondered what could possibly make him feel that way—he who had always seemed so at ease to her. The young man nodded apologetically, a wide grin cracking his face, and set a basket of bandages and poultices on the table.

"You are healing well," the man said. "Only a few more days and the pain will ease a great deal. You won't even feel it in a few days."

His wounds? Eowyn wondered. Is that what he is so afraid of? She had no time to think either that it might not be appropriate for her to watch, or that it was odd for him to be so afraid of having his wounds dressed before Faramir raised his good arm and began to pull his tunic over his head. The young man stepped up and helped him lift it over his wounded shoulder, and Eowyn could not help a tiny gasp at the sight of Faramir's upper body.

She was not surprised to see the bandage covering his shoulder wound, of course, for she knew of that, but as Faramir turned toward the bed in the flickering light she saw that not only did he have another bandage over his stomach, his chest and shoulders were a mass of ugly black and yellow bruises. His left shoulder and arm, she saw, had burns on them, and she remembered that night when he had pulled up his sleeve to show her the terrible marks. But on his shoulder blade, on his back, she saw one burn that was considerably larger than the others, and worse—as if his clothing had burned and had been pulled off of the skin, leaving a terrible sore. The others, she thought briefly, would probably heal, but that scar would remain with him until he dies.

The young man knelt before Faramir and carefully cut away the bandage from his shoulder, easing the old bandage off and fetching a towel and water to wipe away the dried blood. Eowyn's stomach turned at the sight of the wound, knowing that it was healthy but still ugly. He would carry that scar, too—mostly because whoever had taken it out had not had the time nor the skill to do the job well. She assumed it was removed on the battlefield, before he had been brought back. The man re-bandaged it and turned his attention to the other wound and the burn marks and bruises, spreading an ointment on them that apparently soothed the pain somewhat.

"How did you manage to get these bruises?" the man asked, looking up with a sympathetic grin into Faramir's face. Faramir shrugged.

"Have you ever been on a battlefield, Thailan?" he asked, his voice tight. Thailan shook his head and Faramir nodded. "It happens," was all Faramir said in reply.

Thailan finished and stood, taking the basket of soiled bandages and ointments up in his arms and turning at the door. "I'll bring your supper in a little while," he said. "Can I get you anything right now?"

Faramir shook his head and the young man left, shutting the door gently after him. Eowyn watched as Faramir slumped forward until his head was cradled in his hands, and his face was hidden from her. She gazed at his broad back for a long time, noticing for the first time how muscled he was and how his whole body bespoke of long years of training and strength. Even sitting on the bed in an attitude of weakness she thought he looked alert—ready for something to happen, for someone to need him. And as she gazed at his scars and burns and bruises and wounds, she gained more respect for him. She had know he was wounded in his shoulder and had some burns on his arm, but that was nothing compared to the soreness he must feel. She had never detected any kind of burden of pain in him before, and yet now his attitude spoke of much suffering.

He moaned lightly and the sound brought that same odd feeling to her heart—a feeling of desire and regret and content, and so much more that she could not put into words. And with the feeling she realized where she was and what she was doing, and her cheeks burned with shame at the thought that she was spying on a man she hardly knew. She climbed down swiftly, after replacing the metal grating, and she felt even more guilty at the surety she felt that he would never even consider spying on her, much less actually do it.

She sat back on her bed, trying her hardest to picture Aragorn and become lost in thoughts of him. She had never before had a hard time picturing Aragorn and dwelling on him and the sweetness of the life together that had been thrown away; now she found his dear, familiar face to be only a shadow. Try as she might she could only see Faramir's bruised back and hear his voice, gentle and soft, telling her to make her 'q's looser, and knowing that his deep, sea-colored eyes had looked at her and thought she was beautiful.

* * *

That night Faramir dreamed once again of the fire, but to his surprise he was not the one burning. In his dream he stood, safe and whole, on solid ground and watched as the flames rose higher around one who stood silent, not calling out nor moving. At first he did not recognize the figure, and only knew that he did not want them to perish, but eventually he came so see that it was Eowyn. She was dressed in white, her hair flowing, and her eyes were proud and far-off. He called to her, pleading with her to grasp his hand. "Eowyn!" he called desperately over the rising inferno, "You must take my hand! You must try to save yourself! You will perish if you do nothing!" 

He reached his hand farther until it touched the flames and he winced as the sting of the flames burnt his hand, but he held it there. "Eowyn…" he trailed off, and their eyes met for an instant. She would not do it, he realized, for she was proud and she did not see the danger. How can she not see the danger? he wondered. She stands in the midst of the flames! But she did not move and turned her eyes purposely away from his. He woke with a feeling of pain creeping up his arm.

* * *

Eowyn's first thoughts upon waking were of shame, and she hid her face in the pillow. "I cannot get up," she whispered to herself, and she started when she heard Bithie's answering voice. 

"Why ever not, my Lady?" her maid asked, coming up next to her. Eowyn's large eyes looked up reproachfully at Bithie, and the woman bowed her head. "Forgive me, my Lady…I did not mean to disturb you. But the fire has burned low, and it is chill today."

Eowyn sat up and shook her head. "Never mind," she answered. "Just bring me something to wear." She shook her head when Bithie brought her the blue dress, throwing the covers off and setting her feet on the floor. "No," she said, "I wish to wear a simple dress."

"My Lady," Bithie protested, "You must wear the new things, for they were made for your use. It is more befitting of your rank, my Lady." Eowyn knew she was right, but she recoiled from the thought that they might bring attention to herself. She almost hated herself this morning, and as soon as Bithie left to fetch her breakfast she went to the window and leaned her head against the cool pane. How could she forget Aragorn so quickly? How could she let herself imagine a future at all, let alone a future with another man? What had happened to her solid belief in the hopelessness of her life, and her steadfast wish for death? She was so confused, for she didn't _want_ to be miserable, but she didn't think she could let her heart hope again, and she could certainly not let it love again.

And last night—she felt almost as if she was guilty of some deadly sin, spying on Faramir the way she had. How could she face him today without seeing his scarred back and hearing his words—words that she should not have heard? He had said nothing personal, but if he had she would have heard it anyway. She raised a hand to run it through her hair and moaned softly. Her heart was in such confusion that she could not read it, and now she did not even want to.

She did not eat anything that Bithie brought, but she drank the steaming tea as if her life depended on it. When Bithie once more held up the blue dress she did not argue, and she said not a word as Bithie offered to dress her hair, only sat patiently as the maid brushed it and piled it high on her head. She was conscious that her appearance was greatly improved, and she felt almost foolish, not having worn anything fine or done her hair in any special way for many days. But she threw her worn cloak around her shoulders without another thought to her appearance, without even bothering to look in the mirror, and hurried to the gardens.

She paced the walls, finding no solace there to ease the turmoil within. She thought of Aragorn over and over again, seeing nothing but still feeling the emotions within her of admiration, comfort, and bitter despair. She let the wind blow gently across her face, wishing it was whipping her hair about her, wishing it was a tempest, but she did nothing to remove the pins that held her hair in place. She did not know how long she stood there, staring across the Pelennor, seeing nothing in the dim, shady lines at the edge of her vision, but imagining that she did.

Somehow, she was not surprised to hear his step behind her, yet she did not turn. She knew he had come looking for her because she had not kept her promise to teach him, or to learn in her share. He was silent behind her, giving her time to know he was there and to decide what to do. But still she did not turn, as if she hoped that by ignoring him he would go away. She knew he wouldn't, just as she had once stayed stubbornly by his side.

"Lady Eowyn?" he said softly, and Eowyn's heart fluttered as she heard the confusion and distress in his voice. She knew he had no idea why she was ignoring him and shutting him out of her world, and yet, she thought, when had she ever allowed him access into her heart of hearts? When had she shared her true feelings with him? Yet, she countered, pursing her lips unconsciously, why should she? What did she owe this man, that she must tell him all her secrets?

She felt his presence behind her and turned her eyes downward to rest on her hands, feeling a tear form in her eye. She felt it slipping out and before she could catch it she felt his hand touching her face, wiping the tear away. Her eyes flew to his, and she found him nearer than she had expected, warming the air between them with his soft breath. His eyes were full of emotions, and Eowyn saw none of the pity she expected to be there. She stepped back quickly, raising a hand to feel the skin where the tear had been. It tingled with the touch of his hand, still lingering.

"I'm sorry," he said, but his voice was not pleading, only gentle. He waited as she finished wiping her eyes and raised her head again. "You did not come, this morning," he said, and his voice was not accusing, only confused. "Is—is something wrong?"

Eowyn shook her head, struggling to find her voice again. "I'm fine," she managed, and she was glad that her voice was neither harsh nor broken. "I—this morning I felt…" she trailed off, unable to finish her sentence truthfully, and unwilling to lie. Faramir nodded and shifted his weight unconsciously; Eowyn could not help seeing his back again, bruised in the flickering firelight. She turned away and pressed her body against the wall. Neither of them spoke for a long time, and she shivered in the coldness. The wind was not heavy, but it was chill and her cloak was thin and not up to the frosty air. Suddenly Faramir turned and said, "Forgive me, Eowyn—I will return in a moment."

She watched in surprise as he turned and walked quickly down the steps to the garden and into the Houses. It was amazing, she thought absently, the difference in his walk between now and when she had first met him. He was truly healing and so, she realized with a start, was she. Her left arm was still in a sling, but it was getting stronger, and her right arm was beginning to feel warmth again. She turned her head back toward the fields and gazed thither until she heard Faramir's step again. She looked back at him as he came up beside her, and her eyes widened at the blue cloak he held in his arms. Without saying anything he unfurled it, and she gasped softly as the folds fell to the ground, revealing intricate stitching in silver around the hem and the throat. The inside was also silver, lined with thick cloth almost as beautiful as the outside.

Eowyn looked up as Faramir stepped forward, and without hesitation he settled the garment over her shoulders. The weight was pleasant, and she felt the chill immediately begin to abate as the thick cloak settled around her. Faramir looked down over her shoulder and touched the front of the cloak. "There are slits," he said, "for you hands. Somewhere down there."

Eowyn's hands found their way out, and she looked down at them in wonder before coming to her senses and stepping away from him. "I—I cannot accept this!" she said with a flush. "I do not know where you got this from, but it is too beautiful…"

"It's yours," he said firmly, stepping away. "You are cold in that shabby cloak of yours. You need something to keep out the chill."

"But this!" she said, her voice seeming too shrill to her. "Where did you find it? It is a woman's cloak…fit for a queen!"

Faramir was silent, but when he raised his eyes to hers they were peaceful. "It belonged to my mother," he said softly. "My father had it made for her, to grace the most beautiful woman on earth, he said. Lady Eowyn, please—accept it."

Eowyn opened her mouth to say more, but something held her back. She knew this was a mighty gift from him, for she had never heard him speak of his mother before, but she knew he held her in his memory as one of his most precious memories. This cloak was not only stunning, it was also, she sensed, of deep personal significance to him. It scared her, she realized, that he would trust her with something so precious to him. What could it mean? She forced herself to look over the Pelennor, forced herself to think of other men. She clung to the memory of Aragorn with all her might, picturing his memory in her mind again and again until she forgot about the man beside her, and about the warm gift around her shoulders. She could not let herself be beguiled by another man, no matter how generous. She could not take another spurn.

Faramir watched her face gaze over the fields, searching, he knew, for a man who was not there. He knew there was no attachment between them, else Eowyn would not have the look of despair in her eyes as she did now, nor would she have ridden so foolishly to battle with the men. He knew who 'he' was now, and he knew why she had loved him. When she had not come he had known instinctively that she was struggling as hard as she could to hold to her desire for the Lord Aragorn, and the hope she had had of being high Queen over Gondor. He had at first told himself he would go back to his room and try to forget her, but something called him to her side, as if he knew she was struggling to make sense of her emotions. And when he had come and saw her hair bound up on her head, wreathing it like a crown, and the blue dress peeking out from under her cloak, he had known his own heart immediately, and he knew that he loved her.

When it had happened he did not know, and he hated himself for loving a woman who had no interest in returning his love. Yet when he brushed her tear away he had felt a spark of something—love, he had thought, but now he wondered if it was not hope. Hope that she would accept that Aragorn did not love her and turn away from her despair. But it was too soon to hope for her love, he thought. She could not recover from her pain that quickly.

As he stood beside her, gazing with her across the plain, he wondered if she had found any solace at all in his company. He had thought she had, from time to time, but perhaps he was only blinded by his own love for her, and the freedom he felt in her company. One thing he knew—she looked breathtaking in his mother's cloak, and he could not look at her for fear his emotions would betray themselves. Why he had chosen to gift her the cloak he did not know either; he had long desired to give the cloak to the woman he would one day marry. It was foolish, he knew, to give it to her, who would return to her native land and marry. He would never see his mother's cloak again, and it would pass out of his house. But as he forced himself to look at her, he knew that he would do it again if he was given the opportunity. The memories of sorrow and sweetness wrapped up in the cloak were fitting for Eowyn—a woman much like his own mother in her grief and beauty.

Finally, he could stand the silence no longer, and he said to her, "Eowyn, what do you look for?"

She started and looked at him, her eyes full of unshed tears. "Is that not the direction in which the host marched?" she asked, wondering where the truthfulness came from, "and is it not seven days since he marched with them?"

Faramir clenched his fist as he heard her voice confirming his own thoughts, and he ignored her reference to the man she loved. "Seven days," he repeated, letting his gaze fall to the city below them. "And yet—do not condemn me if I say that I have not been unhappy, nor would I lose so soon what I have found." He, too, was startled by the truthfulness in his words, and he watched her eyes come up slowly to meet his.

"Lose so soon what you have found?" she repeated in a whisper, hardly allowing herself to think about the meaning behind his words. "I—but let us not speak of this!" she suddenly said, shaking herself and standing straighter. "Let us not speak of anything! These days have been so filled with pain and healing, and things I do not understand. I feel as if I am standing on the edge of a terrible chasm, and I am in the dark. I do not wish to fall in."

"Nor I," he said softly in response, and neither of them said anything more. Yet they drew unconsciously closer together, until their hands almost touched. She would not look at him, and he refused to allow himself to look at her; both pretended to be strong, only to feel more acutely their own weakness.

The sun came out and burst its light upon them, and they stood there even as the eagle came flying from the east to tell them of the news. The city took up a shout around them, and the hearts of everyone grew lighter at the promise of lives that would be returned and joy that would be renewed. But for the Lord and Lady standing on the wall, there were no words, for one could not give enough of himself, and the other could take nothing for her own.

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**Notes: **_Poor Faramir! He **would** be the first one to realize his true emotions. Yet Eowyn isn't far behind..._

_Next chapter: _

Eowyn could not move. Had she really just felt happy and carefree only seconds before? Her stomach felt like a brick, and the weight of the food she had eaten was not only unpleasant, it was almost unbearable. Faramir was gone. She could not stop her mind from going to that thought over and over again. He had left, and he was not going to be there for her anymore. The thought stung worse than anything she had felt before, and she didn't know why. Eru, she thought, I don't even know why! He has made no pledge to me! He is nothing to me!

But it was not true. Her heart, fickle and deceptive, had opened itself to his smiles and his words, and she had tentatively begun to trust and even love him.

_Review..._


	17. Leavetaking

**Notes: **_Again, thank you for all the reviews. I can't believe this story is almost over...it seems like I just started posting it. In my moments of weakness I almost convince myself to continue it, but then I go back and read the ending, and I know I can't add any more. It just wouldn't...fit. But maybe, if I feel motivated and get inspired, I'll write a sequel. **Maybe.** In any case, it will be a while before that happens._

_I am so, so, so glad that you are all feeling the tedium of Eowyn's days weighing on her. This story is a Faramir story, but the more I wrote about Eowyn the more I fell in love with her. I'm so glad you all sympathize with her. _

_To tell the truth, I myself am an angst fan. I tried to squelch it, because I know it doesn't make very good writing (usually), but a few angsty moment snuck in nonetheless. The next chapter in particular: if you like angst, look forward to the next chapter. _

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**Chapter Seventeen: Leavetaking

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The door slammed behind Faramir; he had unconsciously put more strength into shutting it that he had intended. For a second he was surprised that his strength had returned so fully, but he dismissed the thought and his mind returned to the emotions that tormented him.

So he loved her. That was as clear as it could be, for Faramir could not hide his own heart from his perception, even as he could not help seeing other men's thoughts. He knew his gift of perception was just that, and not the curse he so often wished to call it, but still he felt discontent. If only he could have kept himself ignorant to his own feelings just a little longer, just until he was out of these Houses. For go he would, and tomorrow, if they would let him. No, he decided. Even if they would not let him, he would go. It was time, healed or not, for him to assume authority, even if it was just for a short while. The Lords would be feasting and celebrating for a length of time, but the city had much to do to prepare for the King's return.

Faramir paused and leaned both hands against the windowsill. Even with his thoughts in such turmoil over Eowyn, he still could not help feeling the joy of those words. 'The return of the King'…there was a sense of peace about such words, and Faramir felt a tingling excitement at the thought of the restoration that was in store for Gondor with Aragorn's return. The times would be difficult, but he had worked so hard for so long, and without even any real goal in sight or any fruits being born of his work that he felt this effort would be worth it. There would be something tangible and rewarding about working under and beside his King.

Faramir's head bowed at the thought of Eowyn, who was perhaps one of the only souls who did not find joy in the thought of the King's return. He wondered exactly what had passed between them—more than likely it was only on her part, and there had been no real feelings between them, but he could not be sure. Perhaps Aragorn had given Eowyn reason to hope, and then had slighted her? Somehow, Faramir could not picture that, but it was possible. Eowyn had seemed so hopeless and tightly shut—as if she was afraid of being hurt or shunned again, so she would not trust her heart to anyone else.

"Oh Eowyn," he said out loud, leaning his head against the window frame, "You don't know how much I could never hurt you."

He stood for a long moment, seeming lost in his thoughts; he dwelled long upon the memory of Eowyn standing beside him in his mother's cloak, and he knew she was, to him, the most beautiful woman alive. Yet there was something beyond her physical beauty that amazed him and left him breathless. She was filled with sorrow much of the time, but there was something about her that was untouchable. It was as if she was made of some very strong metal which might be bent, but could never be broken.

He turned from the window resolutely and began pacing again. This time he forced himself away from the thoughts that tore at his heart and dwelled instead on the repairs and restoration of the city. He would speak with the Warden tonight, and tomorrow morning he would leave these houses with a purpose and once more a job to do. He would leave behind everything he had lost here—all the tragedies and sorrow of his father and brother. From henceforth he would carry their memories with him, but their haunting, painful ghosts, he resolved, would be left here. Yet, as he paused to look once more out the window, he realized that he would leave not only the sorrow he had found here, he would also leave the joy he had found, for she would not be moved—not for all his love.

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Faramir sat stiffly, touching his stomach unconsciously, as if by touching it he could ease himself down better. The pain was not really that bad anymore, but the action had become a habit of his. He looked around himself absently, taking in the colors and objects in the little room with only half his attention. The Warden had a surprisingly tidy and tastefully decorated living space—at least as far as Faramir could see—and shelves lined with books stood up against one wall. Faramir had expected as much, from the promptness with which Thailan had returned with the books he requested. He stood now, touching his stomach again in the process, and looked over the books. Most of them were worn and the binding was falling apart, but here and there were scattered newer books. Faramir ran his fingertips over the titles lightly, a smile lighting up his eyes. It seemed that no matter how tumultuous his thoughts were his mind could be diverted by books. 

He stopped near the end of the shelf and pulled a book out. It was thin and the title was almost completely worn off, but Faramir's eyes brightened even more as he opened the cover. "I have not seen a copy of this since…" his voice trailed off as he touched the writing on the inside.

He turned at the sound behind him to see the Warden smiling at him. He was a tall, spare man, with big hands and long bones; his cheeks were hollow, but his face had a healthy, robust look. His eyes were almost always twinkling, and the somber colored robes he wore marked a stark contrast to his jovial spirit. Now he nodded to Faramir and said, "I know you are a great reader, my Lord. Have you never read that one?"

Faramir shut the book reverently and replaced it. "No," he said with a smile of his own. "My father had a copy, but I never had a chance to read it." The Warden nodded again and came into the room. He gestured to the chair where Faramir had previously been seated. "Won't you have a seat, my Lord?"

Faramir sat down, removing his hand from his stomach as he saw the Warden looking at him. He ducked his head and answered the Warden's unspoken question. "It's almost completely healed—more of a habit than anything else."

The Warden smiled. "You wish to leave, do you not?" he asked, surprising Faramir with his bluntness. "I suppose you feel completely better?"

"No," Faramir answered, shifting in his seat. "To be honest, my shoulder is still quite sore, and so are the bruises and burns. But there is no alternative now, and I am sure after a few days they will be completely healed." He hesitated, and seeing that the Warden kept his silence, he continued, "The city needs a leader. And now that the King is returning, it is my duty to ready the city for his coming." Faramir spoke with respect, but there was a note of command in his voice, and the Warden knew he would leave in the morning with or without his consent.

"It is your choice, my Lord," the Warden said slowly. "You are not yet as fully healed as I had wished, but there is truth in what you say. The city will need a leader now, and there is no man more suited for the job than you, if you will allow me to say it. Only do one thing for me."

"What is that?" Faramir asked, leaning forward.

"Please promise me that you will take adequate rest and not strain your healing muscles. A difficult request, no doubt, but I pray you to think of the people and the return of the King. It is still possible, at this stage, to relapse."

Faramir saw the wisdom in his words and nodded. "I will follow your advice. You are right—the healers tell me my fever was largely due to strain and insufficient rest, and while I do not know that it could have been avoided then, I will try to follow your instructions now." He rose and bowed his head. "Thank you, Lord Warden."

As he made his way to the door the Warden suddenly stood and stopped him with his words. "My Lord," he said, and Faramir turned at the door. The Warden hesitated and made an impatient gesture with his large hand. "There is one other matter I wish to discuss with you."

Faramir reentered the room and stopped by the bookshelves. "What is that?" he asked with some confusion.

"It is—it is the matter of Lady Eowyn," the Warden said in his usual blunt manner, and he hurried on before Faramir could speak. "You will not think that I have been unaware of the friendship you have struck up while you both resided in these houses, and I freely admit that I am delighted at it. For her sake, especially, I am glad—I will not pretend to you that her health was not of concern to me, at the beginning. It is a dangerous thing, when one loses the will to live, and I tell you now that I believe you played no small part in restoring her to health."

"What of it?" Faramir asked, but though his words were curt his voice was so soft that the Warden did not feel any sting in them.

"I pray you will forgive my boldness in speaking my mind, but it seems to me that there has grown a great affection, and dare I say even a tenderness between you? Do not mistake me, my Lord," he said quickly as he saw Faramir's eyebrows rise, "the friendship is your affair and not mine, but I will say that it gives me joy also to see the tenderness with which you treat her. She has had, as I gather, some rough times, and it has done her much good to have the friendship and attention of a man such as yourself. But, my Lord, I will say plainly that I fear with your leaving, her will for life may leave her also, and that would be a sorrow to me and many others."

Faramir crossed his arm across his chest, ignoring the slight pulling of his burns. "You see far, Warden, and what you say is insightful. I pray that your fears will be disproved—but should they come to pass, what would you have me do?"

"You cannot alter your plans for the Lady, my Lord, and you cannot continue to dwell in these houses and spend your time lightly with her. However, I would ask that, should I see any change in her and her health, you would look favorably on a message from me and respond quickly."

Faramir nodded slowly. "If all houses could have the care of these, and all patients could have the watchful eyes of the Warden on them, the ill and wounded would be far fewer," he said. "If you choose to contact me, you can be assured that I will come." He looked into the Warden's eyes for a moment, and he knew that the Warden with his practiced gaze had guessed the secret of his own heart—that he loved the White Lady and would do anything for her. Yet the Warden turned his eyes away, as if in submission and with a respect for Faramir's feelings that Faramir had not expected. "I will send medicines with you, my Lord," he said. "I know you will apply them faithfully."

Faramir bowed his head again, and with a word of parting he turned and left the Warden's quarters and returned to his room with a strange peace filling his heart.

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The next morning Eowyn slept until the sun was high in the sky. She awoke to the sound of persistent tapping, and she lay on her back staring at the ceiling for a long time, trying to figure out what it was. Finally, unable to stand it anymore, she threw the covers off and went to the window. At first she did not see anything, but after glancing around her eyes followed her ears to the sound and she saw a man hammering nails into a wooden structure out in the garden. He was building new benches, she realized, and then she smiled at the thought that the gardens were in sore need of them. 

She turned back to look at the rumpled bedclothes and the fire that had burned to ashes during the night. She had secured the door, not wishing to be woken by Bithie again, and the fire had consequently been allowed to burn out. But she was not cold, for there was a new warmth to the air ever since the day before. At that thought she felt her cheeks flush, and she knew a tingling excitement at the freedom of the thought that the Dark Lord was no more. The feeling was odd, for she had not felt it for a long time—not even the day before—but now she was thrilled at the thought of the life she might begin, and foremost in her thoughts was Faramir, and the new pleasures they would observe together from these houses.

She went to the door and unlocked it, poking her head out into the corridor in hopes that Bithie would be there. She was not, and Eowyn closed the door again, confident that she would come soon. She went to the fireplace and stirred the coals with the tongs, but as there was nothing to feed it with she could not start it again. She went next to the pitcher and wash basin in the corner and washed her face and hands, feeling the water touch her skin with cold but alive fingers. She laughed as she dried herself off with the towel, and the sound was so new and different to her that she paused and lowered the towel. The woman reflected in the mirror stared back at her, her eyes large and bright in the glowing face. Eowyn lifted a hand to touch her hair and ran her fingers through the locks. Today, she decided, I want my hair to be flowing and free, like the way I feel right now.

Still surprised at the lightness of heart she felt, she went to the closet and chose the red gown. It took her a length of time to fasten the buttons and get all the stays and folds right, but eventually she surveyed herself in the mirror with admiration. She rarely wore red, but she thought that perhaps she would begin to do so more, now. Then, picking up the brush, she brushed her hair with swift, steady strokes until it fell over her shoulders as soft as the silky threads in corn, and almost as pale. Then she sat down to await her breakfast.

Bithie did not come until the sun was past the highest point in the sky and had begun crawling downwards. Eowyn had tried to do needlework, and had spent an hour watching the man building benches outside her window, but eventually she resorted to sitting on the chair by the fire. As Bithie entered at last, bearing a tray of food, Eowyn looked up with an annoyed expression. "Has there been much more work to do, today?" she asked, not trying to keep the edge of disapproval out of her voice. Bithie set the tray on the table with a harsh clatter and turned to make the bed.

"No more than usual, my Lady. Why do you ask?" Eowyn knew from the maid's voice that she was angry with her, though she could never say it outright. Before she could reply Bithie went on, "You'd better eat…all that sleeping can give you quite an appetite."

Eowyn had no response, so she simply went and sat at the table to eat. Bithie's mood cast a slight shadow on her, but the joy she felt inside was overwhelming, and she thought that nothing could disturb it today. The fruit and bread was the best she had ever had in these houses, she was sure, and she smiled as she poured herself more of the sweetest water on earth. "Bithie," she said at last, as the maid bustled about, "Is it not a beautiful day?"

Bithie shrugged and patted the bed one last time. "Oh, I forgot," she said, still with a bit of annoyance in her voice. "The Lord Faramir was asking after you this morning. When I told him you were asleep he said to bid you farewell, for him."

"What?" Eowyn's voice was sharp, and she felt something plummet in her stomach. "Farewell—what did he mean?"

Bithie shook her head. "He left this morning, my Lady—to return to his house and take up command of the city. He is not yet completely healed, but the Warden gave him permission to leave yesterday. He is now gone."

Eowyn launched herself out of her chair. "Why didn't you come and tell me…I was sitting here for hours!"

"Your Ladyship saw fit to lock the door," Bithie said tartly, "and he was long gone by the time you had unlocked it." She turned and picked up some soiled cloth that needed to be washed. "I am sorry, my Lady, truly. But he thought of you before he went." She left Eowyn in the room alone, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Eowyn could not move. Had she really just felt happy and carefree only seconds before? Her stomach felt like a brick, and the weight of the food she had just eaten was not only unpleasant, it was almost unbearable. Faramir was gone. She could not stop her mind from going to that thought over and over again. He had left, and he was not going to be there for her anymore. The thought stung worse than anything she had felt before, and she didn't know why. Eru, she thought, I don't even know why! He has made no pledge to me! He is nothing to me!

But it was not true. Her heart, fickle and deceptive, had opened itself to his smiles and his words, and she had tentatively begun to trust and even love him. When? When had it happened? She asked herself the question as she stood in the middle of the floor, staring at the door where Bithie had gone. Was it while they had strolled in the garden? Was it when he had wrapped his hand, strong and firm, around her own and guided her movements with the pen? Aragorn had never been so caring, so open. A thousand images flew through her mind, and she suddenly covered her face with her hands. She had been such a fool, thinking that she was still in love with Aragorn, and that her heart was too broken to ever love again. How could she have thought she would not fall for Faramir?

She did not blame him, as she would have in the past. He had been nothing but sweet and kind to her, helping her through her trials and treating her gently. What had he received from her? She recalled her words in the garden when they first met, about how she was a shield maiden and her hands were rough. How true they had been! He had given of himself to help her mend and heal, and she had done nothing but suck in his gifts until they had run dry. Worse, she who had thought she had loved truly and purely and had been slighted wrongly now saw that her love had not really existed—not true love, at least. If she could so easily forget the lesson her heart had learned was she not as flighty and heartless as any common whore?

She felt the sobs rising in her breast before they came out, grudgingly. It was strange to feel the wetness on her cheeks and be unable to stop the heaving of her breast. But there was no other way to face the pain of his parting, the disappointment of her hopes, and the anger she felt toward herself.

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**Notes: **_I'm sorry that this chapter was so short; the next one will be longer, I promise. Now tell me what you think! I know there are some people who take the view that Eowyn truly did not know her heart until Faramir came to her, but you will see how my version all fits together. I promise. And to some extent, she's still hiding from herself._

_Next Chapter:_

The rooms were all dark as he opened doors, and he quickly shut them. He didn't know what secrets this house lodged, but he had no wish to find them out alone, in the deepening gloom. Finally, a little way from the main hall, he opened a door to find a single taper burning on a desk situated in the middle of the room, and he paused. The candle was burning low, and the light flickered slightly in the draft from the open door; Thailan could see paper spread out over the desk and a bottle of ink sitting open. The young man opened the door a little wider and entered, his eyes caught on the papers. The writing on them was dark against the crisp whiteness of the paper, and the desk was like a pool of light in the middle of the dark room. Thailan's eyes caught on the first paragraph of the writing, and he leaned one leg on the chair that had been pulled out as he read...


	18. Stepping Into the Shadow

**Notes: **_Thank you all for reviewing! I'm so glad you're liking what I'm doing here. _

_First of all, I'm glad you all kept an open mind in regards to Eowyn realizing her love for Faramir. I just can't bring myself to believe that she didn't really love him and was just marrying him because she felt it was best; it also didn't make sense to me that she would suddenly realize her love for him in one second (although it could happen). Therefore, as you can all see (and will see more in the next chapter), she is still deceiving herself, while knowing deep down that she made a mistake in letting herself love again._

_I'm also glad some of you picked up on her emotions of horror at herself when she held up her love for Faramir next to her love for Aragorn and inspected it. Looking back, I wish I had expanded that more, for I think now that that is one of the key things keeping her in depression. She was so sure that her love for Aragorn was true and noble, and when he spurned her she painted herself a picture of the suffering, wounded maiden. But when she realized her love for Faramir, and consequently realized her love for Aragorn really **had** been childish, she was forced to believe in her own fickleness. Her pride, which as we all know is substantial, rebelled horribly at this revelation, and I think that is the major reason she still shrank from her problems. _

_Well anyway, enough of that. I hope you enjoy this chapter--as I said before, it's very angsty. I guess all the angst I'd been surpressing in the previous chapters all spilled out here; in any case, just keep in mind that this chapter does not necessarily contradict all of Faramir's other emotions. He's realizing and coming to grips with some things in this chapter that he's never come to terms with before, but he's also overdramatizing. It's a natural thing to do sometimes. _

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**Chapter Eighteen: Stepping Into the Shadow

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This wasn't what Faramir wanted. He stood on the doorstep, hesitating for a moment and gazing into the depths of the dimly lit house, his mind spinning. If he had remembered that leaving the Houses of Healing meant coming here, he might not have left. If he had realized that he would be standing here, feeling the rough wood under his fingertips and seeing the familiar furniture in the hallway, breathing in the air that was so heavy from not being breathed and feeling the bubbles of fear rising in his chest, he would have found a way to stay within the safe confines of the Houses while still taking up his office. But there was no help for it now.

It had hit him only after he had visited the throne room and the office that his father had used. It had been hard to step into the room and see his father's papers stacked in neat piles upon the desk, but it had been harder still to realize that he would have to enter his father's house and take up residence there again. He would have to live there, and the thought was at once terrible and painful. To go and walk up the halls again; to lay to rest Boromir's clothing and his father's books was one thing—it was another to live among the ghosts of the past. As he contemplated the return, he knew that he had not truly dealt with them yet. He had been grieving, quietly, and he felt some of the scars beginning to close, but there was no way living in the Steward's house would not rip open the scars that needed distance to heal.

Yet there was nowhere else he could stay. It was impossible to remain in the Houses after he had already left them. Perhaps if he had chosen to stay it would have seemed natural, but now that he had gone he could not slink back to the healers like a dog afraid of being whipped. And besides there, where was he to go? To ask for quarters in some other part of the city would raise talk and be awkward for him and for whoever housed him. Besides all that he knew deep down inside that he had to face his ghosts. He could almost call himself a coward for this weakness, this inability to face what had happened to him. He told himself fiercely, as he looked in the door, that he needed to come to grips with his father's and brother's deaths and move on.

How easy that would be, he did not know, but he stepped inside firmly and shut the door behind him. The few servants that had remained in Minas Tirith had not left the house after his father's death, he realized, for they had had nowhere to go, but the upper floors had not been lived in at all for at least ten days. The candles were lit, however, and the furniture was as well dusted and polished as it had ever been. The maid had likely been up only today to return the house to the right order. Faramir went over to a heavy wooden chair that stood in the corner and reached out a hand to touch it, then watched it dance before his eyes as his vision fogged over. Just the smell of the house brought back memories and emotions he had thought had long since died. Before he could do anything to stop it, he heard his father's words in his head as he had spoken them at their last interview before Faramir had been wounded.

Denethor had been in his study, looking over papers when Faramir had entered, slowed by his wound and even more tired than he had been the day before. He had gotten little rest that night for much of it had been taken up with orders and details about the plan that had to be worked out. He remembered thinking vaguely that before the darkness descended on the earth men would have thought it suicide to enter combat in his condition, but the thought was pushed out almost before he thought it.

Faramir's most prevalent memory of Denethor at that last meeting was how his eyes were dark. His father had gray eyes, and they were usually hard, cold, and flint-like. But they were light in color, which could often be even more unnerving than dark eyes—yet Faramir remembered how Denethor had looked up at him with dark eyes and there had been no love in them. Faramir had bowed slowly and looked up knowing that no words would be sufficient to convey his true feelings, and even if he could find a way to say them, his father would not listen. What exactly they had said he could not remember, except the very last phrases. He had looked at his father, and he knew his eyes had begged his father to please, just this once, give him something that he could grasp onto and carry with him onto the battlefield. "If I should return," he had said, desperation eking out of his words, "Think better of me."

For a moment it seemed as if Denethor wavered, but Faramir now doubted that there had been anything but anger in his heart. Faramir knew, in that second, as his father's eyes stared into his own, that everything Denethor had endured was in his mind at that moment, and for some reason that Faramir could not understand, he was blaming his only living son. Faramir had felt something like pity, and something like anger, but they had both vanished at Denethor's last words to his son: "That will depend on the manner of your return."

It had been all Faramir could do to turn and leave the room. All the pretend acceptance and fake appreciation he had built up around himself had come crashing down at the words his father spoke—words which forced him to accept the cold, razor-sharp edge of his father's disapproval. He had been past wondering what he could have done differently. He had been past feeling sorry for himself, or trying to tell himself that his father really did love him. The only thing left to him was to know the truth about his father's heart, and that he could not accept. So he felt nothing as he left the room, and he felt nothing as he left the city, followed by his men. He felt nothing as the Wizard spoke words of encouragement; he felt nothing as the battle raged around him and he fought to defend what he did not own. He felt nothing until he awoke in the Houses of Healing and there he found a reason to live again.

Faramir drew a shuddering breath as he came back to the present—to the world where he now lived. He would remind himself of that as often as he must in order to overcome these fears and memories. And now, he decided, he must go and face his father and his brother. It would be far better than living here and having them hanging over his head like a weight. Accordingly he turned and began climbing the stairs slowly, taking in once more the way the curtains hung over the huge windows and the light of the candles reflected on the shining wooden banister. How often he and Boromir had slid down the railing as children, only to be reprimanded by one of the servants! It seemed now, in the heaviness of the moment, a glimmer of hope gifted to him to remind him that he would find a way out of this darkness. Somehow.

His father's room was not far from the top of the stairs, but he turned his feet down a side corridor, intent upon going to Boromir's room first. The door, he realized with a twist of fear at the bottom of his stomach, had probably not been opened by anyone since Boromir had left, unless his father had felt the urge to visit his absent son's rooms. Faramir paused only briefly before the door and set his jaw as the door swung open to reveal a dark room. In an instant Faramir had one of the candles from the hall in his hand and had entered the room. For a moment he was busy with the task of lighting the candles set in the wall fixtures, and then he stepped back to look around.

The room was far cleaner than it had ever been while Boromir was living in it, yet Faramir felt his chest tighten as he looked around at the piles of clothes—unneeded on the journey—stacked on the shelves, and at the miscellaneous gear, books, and trinkets strewn over the tables. His brother had always been far too busy to keep his room clean, and now Faramir felt a thousand memories come rushing back on him as he looked around at all the objects his brother had used and he had tried so hard to forget. He ran his fingers over a tunic that was strewn over a chair; the gold thread sewn into it glimmered faintly in the candlelight and it presented itself to Faramir's mind as the tunic Boromir had worn the night before he had left. That had been a sorrowful night, filled with goodbyes—yet Faramir had never truly let himself think his brother might not come back. Not until he saw the boat slipping past him on the river.

Faramir trailed a finger down the edge of the table and looked at the amount of dust it had collected. It hurt, somehow, to see that his brother's things were left to the dust. His memory was of Boromir being so alive—so present—that to see his possessions not being used did not fit in Faramir's mind. And yet Faramir also felt a satisfaction that while being in Boromir's room made his heart ache, he could be in here without finding the unfathomable sea of pain he had so feared. Suddenly, he remembered something Boromir had told him as they faced each other out in the crisp wind on the walls. "If I don't return brother," he had said with the familiar twinkle and the not-so-familiar seriousness in his eyes, "Keep the city alive for me. Don't let them lose hope." He turned to gaze silently out over the sleeping city and his hands fell to his sides. "They need us so greatly, Fama. They are like sheep watching the shepherd and trusting in what he says. They don't trust father anymore—at least, not as much as they trust us. They need us to be strong, so that they can be strong. You have to be strong while I'm away Fama, and if I fall."

Faramir's protests were merely batted away by Boromir as he went on, eager to say what he needed to before he left. "We need them too, little brother. I used to think that we were the strong ones—we with the blood of Numenor in our veins, and the reigns of leadership given to us at such a young age. It's true, to a certain extent. Yet the people have strength too, and you'll see it someday. You haven't seen them as I have, for you've been in Ithilien with your rangers. But someday soon, Fama, you'll look into their eyes as you ride out with your men behind you, and you'll see that unquenchable strength. You'll know what I mean."

Faramir had seen it—when he had gone out with his men to Osgiliath. He remembered the looks now—looks that hadn't meant anything to him at the time, but now meant the world. He had seen that strength in the eyes of the few women who remained, watching out of doorways and windows. He had seen it in the soldiers left behind, and the guards at their posts. And he had seen it reflected in the eyes of the men who rode behind him to face their fate. Strength, bolstered by his own courage, that had conquered the darkness.

He left the room after extinguishing the candles, and closed the door softly. Someday soon he would return and pack his brother's things, but that task, he knew, could wait a while. What he had to do now, he knew, would not wait, nor would it be easy. The peace he felt at the thought of his brother's death, despite all his sorrow, was far from what he felt at the knowledge of his father's death.

* * *

Thailan turned away from the elderly matron in frustration, ignoring her words of comfort. "He'll be around here somewhere," she was saying, but he shook his head and hurried out the doorway, to the staircase that led up the first floor. His long legs took the steps two at a time, and he just missed knocking his curly head against the low doorway at the top.

It had been hours since Faramir had told him to return to the Houses and gather his things. He had come to the house expecting to find Faramir waiting in his rooms, the kitchen, or even the first floor, but he had not found him in any of those places. The Steward's house was large, and Thailan had never been there before; he had no idea where to look for his master. For master he was, now—Thailan had asked first Faramir and then the Warden if he might accompany Faramir to his house and act as his manservant. Faramir had been hesitant at first, for he'd never had a manservant before the Houses, and he knew he didn't really need one. But Thailan, using all his powers of convincing, won him over by saying that now that he was the ruling Steward he would have even less time to devote to personal affairs, and he would be expected to keep up a much more flawless image in court. Thailan did not actually say that Denethor and Boromir had both kept menservants, but Faramir knew and caved to Thailan's wishes. The Warden had been much easier to convince, and Thailan had no trouble taking his leave of the Houses of Healing.

Now Thailan went up the main staircase in the same manner, taking the steps two at a time. He had taken his time gathering Faramir's belongings and putting them away once he was here, but now he regretted it. Faramir had said he would be waiting here, at the Steward's house, when he came back, yet Thailan could not find him. It was always possible, he knew, that Faramir had gone somewhere else and would be back soon, but Thailan did not believe it. Something inside of him told him that Faramir was here—somewhere.

There were a lot of doors at the top of the stairs, and Thailan went the opposite way of Faramir's rooms. The maid had showed him where _those_ were when he had arrived. But now he wished he had asked where Faramir's brother's room was—or his father's. He had an idea that he would find his master there, and Thailan was sorry for his Lord. He hadn't thought, before, what sorrow it must cause in him to be living here, along with the ghosts of his family. He had to find him—not only because of his instinct as a friend, but also because of his instinct as a healer. Faramir still had to take care of himself, even though he had been released.

The rooms were all dark as he opened doors, and he quickly shut them. He didn't know what secrets this house lodged, but he had no wish to find them out alone, in the deepening gloom. Finally, a little way from the main hall, he opened a door to find a single taper burning on a desk situated in the middle of the room, and he paused. The candle was burning low, and the light flickered slightly in the draft from the open door; Thailan could see paper spread out over the desk and a bottle of ink sitting open. The young man opened the door a little wider and entered, his eyes caught on the papers. The writing on them was dark against the crisp whiteness of the paper, and the desk was like a pool of light in the middle of the dark room. Thailan's eyes caught on the first paragraph of the writing, and he leaned one leg on the chair that had been pulled out as he read:

_I write this in the dark of his room, with only one candle to see by. I cannot bear to light more, for they would only illuminate the things that were so sacred to him and so unknown to me. Why I write I cannot say—why I torment myself by huddling in this cold room, stale from days with no one living in it and years of never being aired out, I do not know. All I know is that I can no longer keep these feelings and thoughts of my heart inside. They must spill out one way or another—why should it not be through writing? I cannot tell anyone, for words spoken by my mouth cannot convey everything I want them to. I fear I could not be honest enough with anyone living and breathing, and I cannot bear more dishonesty. I cannot bear to appear as the wise and courageous captain anymore—I desire suddenly to be a boy, scared and confused. Besides, no one would want to hear what I have to say._

_My heart is bursting with so many emotions, but confusion is indeed foremost among them. I am here, father. I am here among your things, breathing the air you breathed so recently! The questions are old and familiar to both you and me—why father? Why? The bitterness of my soul is reflected in that question—a question you will take the answer of to your grave. Did you know that by your actions you would make me wonder my whole life what I have done wrong—what sin I committed as a child or am still committing that you cannot forgive._

_They want me to believe that you loved me, father. That at the last you tried to kill me for love. I am no fool, and neither were you. Perhaps you did love me, once. Perhaps you wanted me like you wanted Boromir, praising me, admiring me, loving me as a father should love his son. This confusion is eating away at me! Was it solely my own fault, or are the gossips and slanderers in this city right, and did it have something to do with my mother? I have heard them speak—on long patrols and watches their words have torn my heart to rags and my spirit has slowly been smothered by their tales. For I know there is some truth to them, father. And now how they will talk—long after I am dead they will tell tales of you and how you could not kill me, even as you wished to, even as you attempted to. Even at the last, when I lay helpless and unconscious, weak with fever and shivering in delirium, I found a way to disappoint your command._

_But for all the hate it would seem you had for me, I loved you. I would not be writing this letter if I didn't love you, father—I would be off somewhere busy forgetting about the father who always demanded more, always said I wasn't good enough. Doubtless I would listen to those who have told me you were wrong, or absurd. Doubtless I could believe them and move on. But I can't, for I desired your love so much it hurt. Every night as I lay down, believing what I had done that day was not enough, and every morning when I rose earlier and earlier in an attempt to do more to please you, I felt an ache in my chest. There was always something missing, father—a hole only you could fill. And now that you are gone I fear that hole will always be there._

_Am I never to be whole? It seems so unfair that I should be left here while you, Boromir, and Mother are all gone and together. And what is left to me? To struggle daily to keep my head above the waters that are trying to drag me under. To help this world piece itself back together while I myself have lost the pieces that will fix me. To labor beside the King, feeling joy at his return, yet also feeling an unshakable sense of betrayal to you. Had I been forced to choose while you were yet alive, Father, I would have been torn to pieces._

_But I must heal, Father. You called me resilient once—do you remember? I was such a young boy, and you said that over my head as you looked at Boromir. "He's resilient, Boromir. He'll be fine." I wanted so much to be whatever it was you had said I was, so I ran as fast as I could to the stacks of books and pulled a dictionary off the shelves. When I found out what it meant I resolved to always be resilient—to never let anyone see what I really felt, and to never let the things of this world break me. It's been so hard, Father. So hard to feel my heart being silently killed day by day and try to give my men the courage and spirit they needed. And now, with the city rejoicing and turning to me once again, I have to do it once more. My sojourn in the Houses of Healing is over—the masquerade has once more begun. I thought, once, that I wouldn't have to put my mask on again—that maybe my heart could learn to love another, and that I could tell her about this. I thought that she would understand, but I was, as usual, premature. I am alone._

_There are tears on my cheeks, Father. I feel the sobs rising in my chest, and they hurt. The bruises are still painful, and so are the terrible reminders of our final hour together. But I don't mind—the fact that there is pain feels almost better; if I must cry, as you warned me never to do, at least there is some retribution._

_I will burn this when I am done—I know I will, but the words will stay with me forever. I will be Lord Faramir once more—wise, somber, and perhaps even cheerful of a time, but I will not be simply Faramir. Faramir has died, somewhere, and I don't think he can be resurrected. He was dying slowly every day of his life._

Thailan drew in his breath in a sharp gasp, transfixed by the utter despair in Faramir's words. He really is alone, he thought, touching the pages softly. He has no one. His uncle is here, true, but he will return to his land and that will be that. He has Damla, too, but her friendship can only go so far, with her family and her duties. There is no one left to him that can help him through this storm.

Thailan raised his head as the candle burned ever lower, and he looked around at the dark room. The door to the hallway still stood open, for he would not be stupid enough to close himself in this dark, unknown room, and it cast a small amount of light around the doorway. His eyes suddenly fell on a dark shadow in the corner by the door, and Thailan drew back at once in fear and surprise; it was a man. As soon as the initial fear was over it was only a moment before Thailan saw that it was Faramir, and he gasped again. All this time, as he had been reading Faramir's words, Faramir himself had been in here. Indeed, he wondered why he hadn't thought of that before. He immediately stepped forward toward his master.

Faramir sat with his back against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms crossed on his knees. His head was bowed onto his arms, and from the rise and fall of his shoulders Thailan knew he was asleep. How long he had been here, Thailan didn't know, but he knew it had been a few hours at the least. And what he had thought as he sat in this room, alone, after writing his emotions down on the paper, Thailan could not imagine. He stooped and put his hand on Faramir's shoulder, surprised when Faramir did not respond.

"My Lord," he began, and he shook Faramir's shoulder slightly. Faramir still did not move, though his breath stilled. "My Lord?" he asked again, louder. Finally, stooping closer, he said, "Faramir!"

Faramir's head rose out his arms slowly, and Thailan met his eyes with the uncertainty of a man who fears what he will find. But Faramir's eyes were not dead, as Thailan had expected, nor rife with grief. They were, instead, soft and unsure, like a child's. Yet upon seeing Thailan he turned his head away, and his glance fell on the table where the candle was still burning. His voice was a whisper: "Did you read it?"

Thailan nodded, though he knew Faramir couldn't see it, and answered, "Yes." But instead of being unable to meet Faramir's eyes, he found himself looking into their depths with greater boldness than ever before. The light in his master's eyes emboldened him, and he said, "Yes I did."

For a long moment Thailan didn't know what Faramir would do—if he would look away, stand up, or perhaps just shrug and say with a painful smile, "I'm alright." He wanted—oh so much—to be able to tell his master how much he cared, and how he was there for him. How he would never abandon him like everyone else had. Yet he knew that Faramir knew all these things, and it was up to Faramir to accept them. Whether Faramir could accept them, when so much had been taken from him, Thailan did not know.

So when Faramir bowed his head into his arms and began to weep, softly and brokenly, Thailan felt a rush of relief, and he knew that this once, and maybe this was the start of something more, Faramir was accepting the gift of another. And Thailan found himself weeping with him—not with any affectation or falseness, but because he was truly grief-stricken and heart weary. Together they wept for everything they had lost, and everything they would lose, and everything they still had that was so precarious. As they wept the taper sputtered and burnt out, but they continued to sit in the dark, for the first time realizing the blessing of their friendship.

* * *

**Notes:** _Wow, I hope you all hung in there. It gets better in the next chapter, I promise. :-)_

_Next chapter...Eowyn paces, Faramir works, and Kitha's big moment comes._


	19. Withering Away

**Notes: **_I'm so very glad you all like the last chapter! It seemed a little less in keeping with the rest of the story, so I'm just happy you were all happy with it._

_Well, my friends, this is almost over now. I struggled with myself, and struggled with myself, and struggled some more, but I finally decided to not write any more. A story just tells you when it's done, and this one certainly did! I couldn't even write an epilogue--try as I might, I couldn't force more than a few words onto the page. So you will have to be content with this. Just one more chapter after this one... Review and let me know that you like it!_

_Sorry about posting a day late: it completely slipped my mind!_

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**Chapter Nineteen: Withering Away**

* * *

The tendril of hair brushed against Eowyn's cheek, and this time she didn't brush it away. It swayed there, gently touching her skin in a lingering tickle, distracting her mind from her other thoughts. Yet what other thoughts had been occupying her? She didn't even remember what had kept her so captivated and transfixed, save that it had drawn her eyes down to the lower levels of the city. 

The wall was high, compared to the one she usually stood on, and she caught her breath as the wind blew harder, sending the wisp of hair into her eyes. She had found this wall, so abnormally high, on the far side of the garden, and the staircase leading up to it had been partially obscured by an overhanging bush. Once atop the wall, she had caught her breath as the lights of the city spread out under her and the wind whistled sharply in her ears. It didn't matter that it was much more chill and the air was frostier on top of this wall. She felt freedom for the first time in a long time.

It had been two and a half weeks since the eagle had come with the news. The city had taken on a festive, madcap joy since that day, and there seemed to be no one who could withstand the overwhelming relief. No one, that is, except Eowyn. She had felt her spirits sink even lower than the days before the eagle came. Her previous moods, when Faramir had been with her, seemed vibrant and giddy compared to the cloud that hung over her soul now. Even the time before she had ridden to war, when the walls of her home were closing in around her, seemed better than this.

At the end of the first week after the victory a herald had come, gleefully requesting, in the stead of her brother, her presence at the Field of Cormallen. She had risen as the man approached her respectfully across the garden, and she watched his fair Rohirric head bow as he held his epistle out. She read Eomer's words over and over, each time feeling a deeper thrust of pain.

_Sister, you know that I pray this letter finds you in recovered health and better spirits than our last meeting. The sorrow and overwhelming unrest that filled me when I saw you lying on the battlefield came back to me as I faced the host of Mordor, and it was you that I thought of, as I fought with the men. Had the renowned Halflings not fulfilled their quest and destroyed evil once for all, I believe I should have died with your name on my lips, and your memory in my heart._

_Yet that was not the turn of fate, and now we rest, rejoicing, in this place. The glory of our victory, the sweetness of the new life that awaits us, and the return of the rightful King of Gondor are all events that bring much rejoicing, yet they would please me better still if you were here beside me. _

_Perhaps it is your wish to abide in Gondor, in the Houses that have doubtless become familiar to you. But I assure you, sister, that when you travel here you will receive glory and renown for your deeds at the battle of the Pelennor, and you will bring great light and joy to us all. For your sake, too, come and join us in our joy. In Minas Tirith you are surrounded still by the reminders of war and death; here you will escape them for a time. Very soon we will all have to face our countries and the rebuilding efforts we must make, but now is the time for rejoicing. _

_Come join us, my sister. Come laugh with me, and raise a glass with the victorious host. I beg of you. Join me, sister._

Eowyn had returned to her room, trying to convince herself to go. Her brother wanted her company, and she could not deny that she wished to see him again as well. Yet there were other things—stronger emotions—that kept her from returning with the herald. Her brother loved her and wanted the best, but Eowyn knew that Eomer was blind in many ways, and her attachment to Aragorn was one of them. It tortured her to think of him, reveling in his victory and rejoicing in his new kingdom without her. She knew that, though it was possible he thought of her once in a while, she was far from most of his thoughts, and he thought of her as no more than a friend or sister. A _younger_ sister, she had thought in disgust as she pressed her forehead against the windowpane after the confused herald had left. She knew that if she went she would be forced to rejoice with him, and watch him, and pretend that his empty, friendly glances and cheerful words did not displease her at all.

She would also be faced with thoughts that tormented her and tore her pride to shreds. She had thought quickly and clearly, on the day Faramir had left the Houses, about her fickleness and her shallow love for Aragorn. For shallow it had been, she saw that now—and yet she did not want to think about it. To think about it forced her to admit to herself that her love hadn't been true and pure, and that Aragorn had been in the right to refuse her. He had seen through her like a pane of clear glass, and she was ashamed of her folly. Even out in the wind, on days when she felt the tedium tear so greatly at her soul that she _had_ to think of something, she felt her cheeks burn at the shame of her emotions, and her ensuing actions. She had thought herself so righteous, so heroic. She had felt that if she couldn't have Aragorn's love—which, she had been sure, was the thing she wished for above all else—she wanted nothing but a triumphant death. Now she was humiliated by the ridiculousness of her situation: she was simply a girl with an infatuation who had carried it beyond the realm of sanity.

There was someone else that kept her in the Houses, too, but she did not admit it, even in the darkest hours of the night. She heard of him often, now that she could move more freely about the Houses and heard more of the news of the city. The servants and healers would often smile that familiar, grateful smile and report that he had ordered a wall to be repaired, and had himself laid several of the bricks to show how it must be done. Or they told of how he had called the first council meeting since the battle, and had shown such great wisdom and dexterity in handling the Lords of the Chamber that the people were already calling him a better steward than his father.

Eowyn drank in these reports like she was dying of thirst and they were her water. It was not long before she sought out maids who she knew were particularly full of gossip and spoke with them, encouraging them with all her guile to tell her of the Lord Faramir's latest doing. And when she was not listening, or walking on the walls hoping to catch a glimpse of him in the crowded city streets, she would often go to her room and take out the pieces of paper which bore the alphabet he had written for her. She had found the pages still sitting on the table in the room where they had left them, and she had snatched them up like precious treasure.

She sat before her window, watching the trees bend in the wind, using the pen awkwardly in her graceful hands. The letters took on new meaning for her; they seemed whole and complete in a world of incomplete puzzles. She labored over each one, crafting them meticulously until hers were just as beautiful as Faramir's. But it wasn't enough for her—she didn't want to make the beautiful letters after much work, she wanted to make them quickly and skillfully as Faramir had. And when she had mastered that, she began to put them together into words. She knew they didn't say anything, not really, but she liked to see them all formed together, imagining what they would say if she knew what she was doing. She thought of the way Faramir had said each letter—'a' as 'ah', 'b' as 'bee', and so on, and she created sentences from memory, guessing at the way the letters formed together.

And now she stood on the wall, trying to find something in this life that was worth living for. She felt guilty and heart-weary at the fact that she could find nothing—indeed, she _should_ have plenty of reasons. She had a brother who loved her, a country to return to and rebuild, and a future, no doubt, with some prince as a husband and children to surround her. But what might sound so perfect to any other woman made Eowyn recoil and want to bury her head in her hands and weep. Her brother loved her, yes, but his love was possessive. His intentions were good, she knew, but he was completely ignorant of how to love her; she would be locked up in the city until he had her married off to a man who would be equally protective. Her cry for help, evident through her going to war, had been heard, but it had been misinterpreted by her brother.

Eowyn knew that returning home to rebuild Rohan was her duty and her only option, yet she dreaded it with all her might. The people that she loved, and had loved ever since she a child, were noble and doubtless would try as hard as any other to put their world back together, but she could not forget that she had betrayed and broken their trust. Her uncle had left her behind to be their guiding light, their leader, and she had slipped away in the quiet of the night without appointing anyone else to lead them and protect them. How they had fared while she was at war she did not know, and the shame and trepidation she felt at the thought of returning home was one of the things that troubled her heart.

Yet most terrifying to her was the thought that Eomer would certainly marry her off, probably as soon as possible. She was beautiful, and a princess, and he would have no trouble, but Eowyn felt that she would rather die than marry any of the men Eomer was likely to chose. The pain of Aragorn's refusal, her own unrest, and her fickleness shamed her and brought her to the brink of despair. To be shackled to any man for the rest of her days—a man who would never understand her—drove fear into Eowyn's heart.

Eowyn shied away from the thought of Faramir, and how he was another reason the thought of returning home and marrying disturbed her. She stubbornly refused to think about why she spent so long each day practicing her letters, and speaking with the maids about him. She shut her mind to the fact that she lay awake in bed for long hours, picturing his gray eyes smiling at her over the table, and the way he had looked that night at the beginning, when he had found out about his father. His expression had been so vulnerable, and yet there was so much despair in his eyes. And the next morning, when he had approached her and asked her again to walk with him…

She would not let herself think about her feelings for him. When she saw Ricah and Kamir in the garden, playing and gaining some healthy weight, she stayed away from them. It was one thing, in her mind, to hear about Faramir, and it was altogether another thing to interact with children that reminded her of him so closely.

There was one thing in her life that gave her joy, and that was the hobbit Meriadoc. He, unlike either Faramir or Eowyn, had actually listened to the healers and had stayed abed as long as they wanted him to. But now, as the days grew ever warmer and more fragrant, and the city began to regain life with the arrival of women and children, Merry convinced Eowyn to walk with him as he regained his strength. They often walked the walls and heard hammers, chisels, mallets, and many more tools ringing out in the city below as the Gondorians rebuilt their city. Merry chattered cheerfully about this and that, and Eowyn listened to him with half her ear and none of her heart. Merry sensed that though Eowyn was grateful of his company, her heart was far, far away, in another part of the city—a part of the city that held a young man trying hard to clear the worst of the damage away and ready the city for the return of the King.

* * *

After that day in his father's chamber the shadow over Faramir's soul began to recede. His fears when he had first come to the Steward's House abated, and he found himself able to live with the memories of his father and brother. Faramir knew that the peace he felt was only on the very surface of the wound, but it was something, and for that he was grateful. He knew, too, that because he wanted to heal, eventually he would. 

He spoke of the past with Thailan sometimes, regaling the young man with stories of his brother. They were never long tales or in-depth memories, but once in a while he would stop and the corner of his mouth would come up and he found words for a short while. Once he stopped in the middle of writing a sentence and said, "Boromir did that." Thailan stopped writing and cocked an eyebrow.

"What?" he asked. "What did he do?"

Faramir lay down his pen and rubbed his hands together, trying to put some warmth into them. "He chewed his pen all the time, just as you do. My father would get so mad at him—his tutors often had to punish him. But he never stopped." He smiled and looked down at his paper, shaking his head. "He ruined so many pens."

Thailan laughed, and he too lay his pen down. "I'm sorry Faramir…I will try not to ruin all your pens as well."

They went back to writing, after that, and like the other times their words were short and spare. But Faramir unconsciously drank in the camaraderie and easy friendship, and the ability to share his thoughts with Thailan. Thailan had taken to calling him Faramir when they were in private, and Faramir felt that for the first time in many years he had a friend who he did not have to pretend with—who he did not have to be the Captain with.

Besides that, Faramir received the same attention and love from the city as he had felt previous to the battle of the Pelennor, with the exception that now the city relied on him alone. Before there had always been Boromir or his father to take on some decisions or responsibility, but now the men and women of Minas Tirith turned their eyes upon him. He had their allegiance already, which he was grateful for, but he still worked long hours in an effort to prepare the city for Aragorn's return. And everywhere he went he saw the shadow lifting in the eyes of the people, as it had in his own.

Thailan made sure he rested, even when he didn't want to, and Faramir's wounds did not trouble him much anymore. He had begun writing with his right hand, again, and his bruises and cuts had faded. The burns, too, had healed, with the exception of the one on his back. The skin on that one was puckered and slightly discolored, and Thailan had told him a few days ago that he would bear the scar for the rest of his life. It was not a surprise to him, and the thought did not bother him as it might have bothered other men. The arrow wound on his shoulder would scar, too, and he bore many other scars on his body: a testament to the years he had sacrificed in Gondor's defense.

It was almost three weeks since Faramir had left the Houses when Thailan came and knocked on the door of his office. At Faramir's bidding he poked his curly head in and said, looking strangely solemn, "My Lord, there is someone here to see you." Faramir laid his pen down and raised an eyebrow. "Who is it?" he asked, puzzled at Thailan's behavior.

"Her name is Kitha," Thailan said softly. "She comes from the Houses of Healing, and says she has a message from the Warden."

Faramir's chair scraped against the floor as he rose; he nodded quickly. "Bring her in," he said shortly. As Thailan left to fetch her from the hallway, Faramir stepped to the window and glanced out, absently hoping to see what he knew he could not. So the Warden's fears had indeed come true—Eowyn was ailing. He bowed his head in a moment of defeat, allowing doubt to encompass his heart. What could he possibly do?

He had no more time to think as the door opened and a young woman who Faramir vaguely remembered stepped in. Thailan shut the door behind her, and she dropped into a curtsey, her sand-colored head dipping in respect. When she rose again Faramir smiled at her and gestured to a chair. "Please," he said, "Sit." He watched as she moved to the chair and sat down gracefully, her plain gray healer's dress settling about her feet.

"My Lord," she said in a soft but sure voice, "I beg your forgiveness for interrupting your work—I am sure you have very little time these days."

"It's quite alright," Faramir said, finding himself relaxed by her calm manner. "What is it that is so urgent? You have a message from the Warden?"

Kitha nodded, her dark eyes closing in the motion. "Yes, my Lord. The Lord Warden has sent me in his stead to beg a favor of you. He said you would know already something of the problem, and would be willing to help." At his silence, she leaned forward and said with a note of urgency, "It's the Lady Eowyn, my Lord. You spoke with her often in the Houses, and there was a friendship between you both, so I will feel free to be frank with you. She is withering away before our eyes, my Lord. She does not eat, she does not sleep, and she hardly talks. The city is rejoicing, and yet she fades slowly, day by day. We do not know what her ailment is, for she will not confide in us. Yet I know that even if she did confide in us, it is likely we could still do nothing."

Faramir's heart tightened at her words, and he leaned an arm against the window frame. "You say she fades," he said quietly. "Has she, then, relapsed?"

Kitha shrugged. "She suffers from no illness we know, my Lord, but her cheeks have grown pale again. I will be honest and say that the Warden fears for her." Faramir shook his head and turned to the window, and Kitha went on in a soft voice. "Her brother sent a herald almost two weeks ago, begging her to join him in rejoicing at the field of Cormallen. Yet she declined and sent the herald back with only a short letter for her brother. We do not know why she would choose to stay in this city that she obviously finds repulsive, and refuse to be honored."

At her words Faramir felt first sorrow and then an irrepressible flicker of hope. There were several reasons he knew that she might not go, and he feared to let one of them even enter his mind, but he could not help it. Yet he looked into Kitha's eyes and asked, "What would you have me do?"

"Please, my Lord, come to the Houses and talk with her. I have already stated my purpose to be honest, so I will beg your Lordship to remember the friendship you had, and the words you exchanged. The rose she gained in her cheeks came during your stay in the Houses. Perhaps you can lift her heart so that she will once more embrace life."

Faramir nodded slowly, pushing off of the wall. "I will come," he said quietly. "This afternoon."

Kitha stood and smiled at him. "Thank you, my Lord. The Warden will be so grateful. I pray you will find the right words to say." At Faramir's nod Kitha left him alone to his thoughts. Faramir stood as the door closed behind her and went back to the window, pressing his fist against his forehead until a dull throb began there. So Eowyn was despairing again. So he had agreed to see her. So he had no idea what he would say to her.

Faramir's spirit was in torments at this new turn of events. He had by no means forgotten Eowyn; on the contrary, he thought of her all the time. But for the past few weeks Eowyn had been in his head alone. He had obviously not spoken to her, and no one had spoken of her to him. Late at night he let his mind dwell on her, but during the daytime he knew that he had to move on from her; besides that, he was busy and had enough things to do that he was able to forget her. But now all the hopes that he had so ruthlessly suppressed had been awoken.

It hurt—oh it hurt. His emotions were so strong, after being held back for so long, that for a moment he doubted whether he should really go and see her. But he had to, now. He had promised, and besides, from Kitha's words it seemed that Eowyn was really despairing. Faramir didn't know exactly why she despaired so greatly, but he had a few ideas. Firstly, there were the emotions of rejection and pain at the thought of Aragorn, and that would be a legitimate reason for her to refrain from going to the Cormallen. Doubtless the thought of him in his glory scared and shamed her, and Faramir knew that though she had been struggling to rebuild her life, a part of her had also been clinging to the feelings and reveling in them. Faramir knew she didn't know how to deal with her new station, especially in this strange city, among strange people.

Now that he was gone, he thought, she had no one to distract her and so she was despairing again. But that thought, too, confused and strangled him in its tantalizing promise. He was faced with two choices—either Eowyn was far more heartless than he could imagine and had been using him to play with and distract her, or she had really felt some of the feelings he had experienced. The first option was beyond comprehension, for Faramir could see something of her heart, and he saw that it was much truer than that.

The second option made him close his eyes and press his fist even harder against his head. He had seen nothing in her eyes—no attraction, no interest, and certainly no love—only friendship. But there must have been something! Otherwise she would not change so dramatically when he left. Now that he thought of it, she must have thought him heartless and even, perhaps, gutless, in the way he left the Houses. He had tried to say farewell, it was true, but he could have delayed a few hours at the least to bid her goodbye. At the time, though, he had been eager to take up his rule and also escape the pain of seeing her beautiful, sad face that was so much in love with another man, and not at all in love with him.

"Oh Eru," he said in a strangled voice, turning away from the window and moving with the slowness that had characterized his broken body, "Why must you torment me like this? Have I not suffered enough?" Yet as soon as the words passed his lips, he was shamed because of his weakness. He _should_ be grateful for the time he had spent with her; he should be glad of his healing, and the relief he had from his tormented past.

But at the same time, he had never felt pain like this. He had felt physical pain in excess. He had known anguish of mind and torment of shame and failure. He had felt bitter disappointment and hurt through his father, his mother's death, and the hardships of war. But he had never before felt the insecurity and helplessness of being in love with a woman who did not love him. It had always depended on him before—could _he_ be better, could _he_ be stronger, could _he_ be smarter. But now he could not stop himself from loving her, and he could not make her love him.

Faramir stopped in the middle of the floor and opened his palms, looking absently at the raw red mark on his right hand where the pen he had been clutching had cut into him. Despite everything, he still had to go see her. It would open every wound he bore, and by the time he left he knew he would be bleeding on the inside, but he had to. Besides the fact that he had given his word, he knew that he could make her want to live again, no matter what it did to him. It would be worth it, if only he could make her smile again, and prepare her for life again. It _had_ to be worth it.

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**Notes: **_Oh, poor Faramir! By the way, I'm not a physchologist, but the human mind does intrigue me! Maybe I should consider it... :-) Just kidding. I think I'll stick to this._

_Last chapter:_

Eowyn nodded, at once relieved and disappointed at his words. Had she wished to find something that hurt him? She didn't understand how she could be that cruel, and yet at his calm words she felt a sense of acute sadness. She had thought, for a moment, that he felt something for her, but as she lowered her head and fingered the edge of her cloak, which lay on the wall, she knew that she was alone in her relief at seeing him. For one reason or another, he did not want to be there. That much she knew, and it caused her to grow distant and cool.

"Are you not chilled?" he asked suddenly, and his gaze fell to her cloak. The rich folds were spread over the rough wall like the flash of a blue jay's tail among the dead sticks of bushes in winter. Faramir's breath caught in his throat as he saw that it was his mother's cloak, and her fingers—so delicate and white—were toying with the silver embroidery around the throat. He looked up, and their eyes met. For a moment he was breathless as she returned his gaze; she saw reflected in his eyes her confusion and wonder and hurt, and she broke the contact by looking down into the city. Her hand dropped to her side.

_Review..._


	20. A Life Half Lived

**Notes:** _I'm afraid that I must apologize; I have no excuse for overlooking the discrepancy of Eowyn's literacy in the last chapter. Those who raised the issue are completely right! She could not have read the missive from Eomer if she was illiterate (and also, I realize, why would she be illiterate and not her brother?) I fear my brilliant little idea of having her illiterate and thereby having Faramir teach her was not so brilliant after all. I suppose if I had an editor he/she would have caught that. But I don't--you are my editors._

_I don't know if they had blue jays in Middle Earth, but I'm just going to say they did. Why shouldn't they? Enjoy this final chapter, and don't forget to review. :-)_

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**Chapter Twenty: A Life Half Lived**

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Somehow, the day passed. Faramir could not concentrate on his work, and by mid afternoon he gave up and, grabbing his cloak, brushed past Thailan and left the house. Thailan knew him well enough, now, to know not to ask him what was bothering him—Faramir would speak if he wanted to, and if he didn't it would only cause him pain to reveal the workings of his heart. Thailan simply went back to the work he was doing to help Faramir.

The walk to the Houses of Healing was not long, but Faramir did not go straight there. He had left his house sure of what he was doing and ready to face Eowyn, but as his steps drew him closer, his courage left him. He turned down several side streets until he came upon a small, dark square with an abandoned fountain in the middle. In the shadows along one wall, he sank down and breathed heavily, trying to release all the emotions he knew he could not take with him to the Houses.

He didn't stay long, and forcing himself to breath regularly, he made his way back to the Houses of Healing. He almost turned down another alley, but in a surge of self-loathing he forced himself to walk up to the Houses. If he could face all the shadow and pain of Mordor and survive, he told himself, he could face the Lady of Rohan; he _must_ face the Lady of Rohan. It was for her sake, he reminded himself, not for his. He had to help her. But Eru, what it would cost him.

By the time he had walked through the Houses, smiling and speaking kindly to the healers and patients who greeted him, and entered the bright sunlight of the garden, his heart had slowed somewhat. He breathed the familiar air of the gardens and all of the memories of those days came rushing back to him—the physical pain, plaguing him and reminding him of being left behind; the things he had learned here and come to grips with; the emotions he had struggled against. And, of course, the feeling that these gardens excited in him, reminding him of another person and the love he had found.

He saw her long before she saw him. She stood on the walls, shining in the sunlight like a goddess; her dress was of the most vibrant white he had ever seen. Her hair, which had been bound the last time he had seen her, was now down, flowing over her shoulders and being lifted and swayed by the wind. And he knew, from her stance, that she was searching the fields just as she had done for days and weeks. He wondered how much time she spent there, now that he was not in the Houses with her, and what kinds of thoughts she experienced. He knew they must be dark thoughts, and he suddenly had an insatiable desire to turn those thoughts towards the light.

Just as his steps had been drawn away from the Houses before, now he felt his feet being drawn inadvertently to the wall. His mind, which had been so occupied with questions of what he would say and do when he got to Eowyn, was now thinking of nothing but her. She filled his senses—her whole being radiated something that captured him and drove him on to be by her side. And his heart, yearning so much to be with her and to have her return his love, gave him false encouragement until he almost expected her to turn around and tell him of her newfound love.

When she did turn—after he had climbed the steps of the wall and walked toward her with his steady, firm footsteps—his world came to a grinding stop at her long look. He saw so many emotions in her, but none of them was love. When she had first turned his quick eye saw, just for an instant, something he couldn't understand, but as soon as she really looked at him he saw her grief, her embarrassment, and even some anger. All the emotions were reflected in her clear gray eyes, shining so brightly in her pale, thin face.

"Hello," she finally said, and her voice said everything her face didn't. He watched her blush a little and then lift her chin, apparently resolute on being strong and resilient. Up close she looked even more beautiful to him; she wore a white dress with a gold belt around her hips, and the way the sun glanced off her hair into his eyes startled and surprised him. He noticed, too, that though her face was paler and thinner, there was something about her eyes that bespoke of a clearer understanding of her fate—as if she had finally thought about the truth of her life and, though still unhappy with it, had accepted it.

"Hello," he returned, and as the simple word left his mouth he felt all the hope and peace that had built up over the past few weeks die within him. He was left with an aching sense of loss, and he struggled to find words to cover his sudden grief so that she would not see how much this hurt him. "I—how are you doing?" he finally came out with, and immediately felt stupid.

Eowyn looked at Faramir as he stood before her, and she sensed something in him that she had never seen before. She wasn't sure if it was because he had changed or if she had not been looking closely before, but there was a new depth to his angular jaw and deep eyes that spoke of long suffering and painful triumph. She saw that he had struggled, as he had not before, with the shadow of his past and his new role in life, and had finally overcome it and found some measure of peace. Yet she also saw that something was causing him deep pain, at this very moment. All the emotions she had felt over the last few weeks came to a painful climax in her heart, and she caught her breath as she looked at his lithe body under his cloak, his uniform of Gondor with a broad silver tree over his chest, his dark, windblown hair, and his pained face. The expression of hurt she saw in his eyes was, besides being unfathomable, so attractive she wondered what was wrong with her.

Do I love him? she wondered, and the thought scared her. Stop it! she told herself. There is no question now…I will not be hurt again, and I will not show him this weakness within me. To cover for her pain, she said, "I have been getting by. The weeks have gone slowly, for me, but I imagine they have not been long enough for you."

"No," Faramir said, not sure whether he was agreeing or disagreeing with her. "I—it's been busy," he said. As the words died between them he forced himself to stop this idiotic muttering and pulled his shoulders straighter. "The people are excited and triumphant—their passion for rebuilding will not last long, but it does great good now."

Eowyn nodded, at once relieved and disappointed at his words. Had she wished to find something that hurt him? She didn't understand how she could be that cruel, and yet at his calm words she felt a sense of acute sadness. She had thought, for a moment, that he felt something for her, but as she lowered her head and fingered the edge of her cloak, which lay on the wall, she knew that she was alone in her relief at seeing him. For one reason or another, he did not want to be there. That much she knew, and it caused her to grow distant and cool.

"Are you not chilled?" he asked suddenly, and his gaze fell to her cloak. The rich folds were spread over the rough wall like the flash of a blue jay's tail among the dead sticks of bushes in winter. Faramir's breath caught in his throat as he saw that it was his mother's cloak, and her fingers—so delicate and white—were toying with the silver embroidery around the throat. He looked up, and their eyes met. For a moment he was breathless as she returned his gaze; she saw reflected in his eyes her confusion and wonder and hurt, and she broke the contact by looking down into the city. Her hand dropped to her side.

But the glance had given Faramir new boldness, and he felt a surge of hope burst within him, which he couldn't stop. Something about her look had made him feel suddenly that she was not as cold and forlorn as he supposed, and mindful of his promise to the Warden, he placed his hand on the edge of the cloak. "Eowyn, why do you stay here when your brother has begged you to join him at the field of Cormallen?" His words were bold, yet his voice was soft and breathy, as if he was afraid of her answer.

At his words Eowyn looked up and her lips parted in a moment of panic. Her mind spun, wondering what he could mean by such words? Someone had to have told him about the letter, which meant that the Warden, perhaps, had asked him to come see her. If that was the case, she felt, then Faramir had only come because of a promise he could not break. He was a man of honor, and he no doubt felt that he should help a friend out. She was simply that to him—a friend. And yet her heart would not listen, for she had seen the flash of pain in his eyes and knew that there was more in his heart than her mind would have her believe. Lowering her head, she murmured, "Do you not know?"

He had anticipated any answer but that. He had steadied himself for denials, coolness, accusations, passion, and melancholy. Yet her words—so simple and direct—threw him off balance for a moment. Still, he recalled previous talks in which they had been honest with each other, sometimes painfully so, and he knew that her words came from deep within her heart. Where at another time he might had played it safe and dragged up words and phrases from his years at court to cushion the conversation, he now felt only the direct, honest words of the Captain exit his mouth. His eyes cleared and he said in a soft, steady voice, "There are two reasons, I think, but which one it is I cannot say."

Eowyn had waited for his words, and when she heard them her heart at once dropped and bounded forth. The uncertainty of what his words meant, and if he really did know her reasons, cast a sliver of fear through her, and she snapped at him, "Do not play at riddles! Speak plainly."

Her impatience only seemed to make Faramir more cautious; he suddenly knew that they stood on the edge of a cliff, and one misstep would send them forever crashing to the bottom. He lowered his head, and looking at the delicate silver threads running through the cloak, said, "If you wish, Lady: you refuse to go because only your brother sent for you, and while you are grateful for that you realize you would have to look on Aragorn, Elendil's heir, in his triumph, and you know that would bring you sorrow." He paused for a moment, gathering his shreds of thoughts about him and forcing himself to continue speaking what was in his heart. He had never been so brutally honest with anyone before, and he had the vague feeling that either his words would build the bridge they so desperately needed, or destroy their friendship forever. "Or perhaps it is because I do not go, and you wish to be near me. And maybe it is both of these reasons, and you yourself do not know which it is." Summoning up his heart, filled with love, and his courage, he raised his eyes to look at her face and asked, "Eowyn, do you not love me, or will you not?"

His words died between them as Eowyn stared into his face. She could not believe that he had said them, and she felt them penetrate her soul like a dagger. His face held nothing except tension, and even his eyes were veiled. His words, which had at first elated her, now sent a shock of fear through her veins. He had said nothing about loving her, she suddenly realized. He had only asked if she loved him. Suddenly the relief she had felt at hearing him speak of love turned into dread; was he not simply asking her if she loved him, and whether or not he should be annoyed? To him, no doubt, her love was like that of a schoolgirl's for her teacher, or a maid's for her master. There was no hope in his face, no gleam of returned love—there was only that awful tension and fear.

Eowyn raised her chin, unwilling to be another man's unwanted lover. Her proud spirit would not bear another such rejected admission, and yet she could not deny what was now plain to her, as she watched him breathing quickly in the fragrant air. "I wish to be loved by another," she finally said, stepping back a pace and clasping her hands together to stop them from shaking. "But I want no man's pity."

Her words were harsher than she had intended, and she at once saw the hurt he couldn't hide. It confused her, but he himself raised his chin and continued to look her in the eye. He knew that he could not stop now, and his words flowed forth from the place he had been keeping them for weeks. "That I know," he said, as softly as before, but with a greater sense of impending loss. "You wished for the love of Lord Aragorn, because to you he was great and worthy, and you wanted to have renown and be lifted above all the menial things you had witnessed crawling on the earth. As a great captain seems to a young soldier you thought him admirable. And he is admirable—a Lord among men, and the greatest there now is. Yet when he did not return your love, and gave you only pity, you wished for nothing else, unless to die in battle." He paused and caught his breath, watching her gazing fiercely at the houses below. In a sudden, desperate motion he caught hold of her wrist, saying, "Look at me, Eowyn!"

She looked up at him with tears in her eyes, and as she did so she knew that he could see into her heart. She felt, in that moment, that she had never been more vulnerable, not even with Aragorn, for Faramir knew about her past and her scorned love, as well as the emotions behind it. He knew everything about her, and it even seemed that he knew the workings and motivations of her heart. As she watched his gaze move over her face and felt her own tears wet her cheeks, she knew that if he rejected her now, after knowing everything about her and understanding the thoughts of her heart, she would truly have nothing left to live for.

"Do not scorn pity that is given as a gift," Faramir went on, knowing now that she loved him. Yet instead of feeling joy at that knowledge he felt instead as if he held a delicate bird in his hands and could crush it without wanting to, if he was not careful. He held out his hand, trembling, between them and grasped at the air. "But I do not offer you my pity. You are high and valiant and have won renown for yourself that will not be forgotten, and you are beautiful, I think, beyond the words even of the Elves to tell. And…" he paused, taking a breath and watching her vivid face as he said the next words from the bottom of his heart. "I love you." He rushed on as her eyes grew wide, "Once I pitied your sorrow. But now, were you sorrowless, without fear or need, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, I would still love you." He let his voice drop to just above a whisper as he said the words that meant so much to both of them: "Eowyn, do you not love me?"

The moment stretched between them as taunt as a bowstring when it is drawn, and Faramir felt a range of emotions that he didn't even know he could feel. Eowyn's face was turned up toward him, and for a long moment he could not tell what she was thinking, but suddenly, as when a dreamer awakes and takes a deep breath, Eowyn smiled and drew closer. Her eyes turned to the stones of the tower and she said in a breathless, vibrant voice, "I stand in Minas Anor, the Tower of the Sun. And look! the Shadow has departed! I will no longer be a shield maiden and vie with the Riders, nor only take joy in songs of slaying. I will be a healer," she went on, her smile growing even wider, "and I will love all things that grow and are not barren." She took a deep breath, and her eyes returned to the still fearful face of Faramir. "No longer do I desire to be a queen," she whispered softly.

And as her words reached his ears and he felt the sun warm his head and shoulders with its graceful light, Faramir felt a rush of joy and such giddy pleasure that he could not stop the laugh that burst through his throat and echoed along the wall. It was a warm, gentle laugh, but it resonated deep within him, starting at his very core and lifting its light into the corners of his mind that were the deepest and darkest and clearing away the shreds of pain and hurt still left there. His eyes met Eowyn's and he felt the years of darkness falling from his shoulders like an old garment being cast off after too much wear. In the moment that he looked into Eowyn's eyes he realized that his laugh had been true and real, and it had come from the joy of being truly loved in return. "That is well," he said, "for I am not a king." He took Eowyn's small hands in his own broad ones and bent his head to say, "But I will marry the White Lady of Rohan, if it be her will. And if she wishes," he continued, his head turning to look out over the fields where she had so often looked, "let us cross the River and make our home in fair Ithilien, and there make a garden. All things will grow with joy there, if the White Lady comes."

His words suddenly caused her to realize that what he said was real, and that she was not living in a dream as she might have thought. His laughter, which still seemed to echo across the wall, brought a smile to her own lips, and she said with humor that he had never seen, "Then must I leave my own people, man of Gondor? And would you have your proud folk say of you, 'There goes a Lord who tamed a wild shield maiden of the North! Was there no woman of the race of Numenor to choose?"'

Her words had been said in jest, but he looked at her seriously and pulled her close to himself. "I would," he murmured just before their lips met, and their kiss was warm and tender, alive with all the emotions they had experienced over the past few weeks. The despair they had both felt upon first waking up and being left behind was there, as well as the tentative threads of grasping friendship they had felt, and the ache of confusion and unrequited feelings. And finally, caught up in their breathless kiss, was the well of deep, abiding love that was the result of two souls so perfectly tuned for each other.

As they pulled apart, knowledgeable of the fact that many had seen them and were pointing, Faramir put his hand up to her face and looked deep into her eyes. "I never thought this could happen," he said softly, fearfully.

"Neither did I," she answered, but her words were warm and sure. Her insecurity had fallen away in their kiss, and she slipped her arms around his waist. Pulling herself closer and laying her head against his chest, she asked, "Can you be real, or is this all another dream?"

Faramir drew his arms around her, drinking in the scent of her golden hair and feeling her warm, living body in his arms. "I feel as if I have been living an incomplete life," he murmured, "A life half lived."

Eowyn drew away from him enough to see his face, and in her own eyes there was a look of understanding. "We have both been living half-lives," she said. "But now we will face the future, and whatever pain it will bring, together."

Faramir said nothing, but he pulled her to himself again. The night was over now—the long, cold, painful night of wondering and waiting had ended, and now the dawn had come and was stretching its golden and rose tinged fingers across the sky. The return of the King would change their lives, and even Faramir, with all his insight, could not see what effect it would have on them. The new day would present challenges, both from rebuilding their shattered world and from the lingering affects of the long night, but he knew that whatever happened, he would not be alone. Not anymore.

**The End**

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**Notes: **_Well, here we are at the end. When I started this story I had no idea how long it would be or what exactly I would write about. Thank you for sticking with me and enjoying this story as much as you did. You made it truly wonderful! _


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